


The Angel Feather

by 1shouldbe_sleeping



Series: The Angel Feather [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Lore, Biblical References, F/M, I don't even know to be honest, M/M, Post-Purgatory, Pre-Season/Series 09, References to Supernatural (TV), Season/Series 08, Slow Build, it's kinda in between those two, like incredibly slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 48,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2529020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1shouldbe_sleeping/pseuds/1shouldbe_sleeping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s going to happen?” Sam asked. His palms were sweating. He had to tell himself not to drop the damn knife. “Is it going to be me facing death, or my brother? Castiel, maybe?”</p><p>The demon did not hesitate to answer. “You and I will save Dean.” Sam’s fingertips went numb. “In a few months, you are going to want me on your side, as I will be summoned to work with the ones who have been plotting against the archangels.”<br/>--<br/>Sam, Dean, and Castiel are hunting for demons -- which ought not to be incredibly surprising, but the demons with which they come face to face are no ordinary demons. As Team Free Will investigates, each of them are tested in ways they would rather not be: Sam has to put his trust in an entity he told himself he would never trust again; Castiel's life is put into question; and Dean is forced to face something he had buried deep in his mind under layers upon layers of concrete. The enemy they face is not only a demon demanding the one thing that could end all their lives; it is the one thing that always kept them together: family (which, when translated, is Dean Winchester for "love").</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a side note: the demon/ angel trials are not a factor in this whatsoever. I make no reference to them, but I do reference a lot of happenings from Season 8 and before. The lore -- demonic, angelic, monster, biblical, what have you -- is both factual and original. I wrote this because I wanted to explore Sam, Dean, and Castiel in the world Kripke created for them. I also wanted to explore the concept of "destiel" in my own canonical way, hence the "incredibly slow" build (when I say slow, I mean _slow build_ ). Nevertheless, it's supposed to be a fun and heartbreaking exploration of Team Free Will and Supernatural. I really hope you enjoy! Feedback is _always_ welcome.
> 
> P.S. Look at the bottom for song suggestions to listen to while reading. (Hint: if you do not like The Killers, don't bother. It won't always be the Killers, though, just saying.)

Sam woke to the sound of silence. It was a slamming silence, the kind that came from the sudden waking from a deep sleep where one becomes hyperaware of the usually noiseless shuffles and creaks of the furniture. Above him was the ceiling fan, clicking and whirling like a hurricane – at least, that’s what it sounded like. The clock at his bedside table ticked and tocked like a gong. Paper rustled and fell to the floor in an audible _ssshhh_ as it skid across the cement floor. Being an on-the-run hunter, oft times spending nights in the back of the Impala, has robbed him of being a deep sleeper. The slightest knock or rustle made his muscles coil, ready to spring.

But this silence – something was off about it, and Sam could not place it. Every morning, the sound of classic rock became the background noise to Sam’s wake up routine as his older brother ambled around the bunker. Now, it was simply . . . nothing. Natural noises. Sheets rustling. Paper shuffling. Fan clicking. Clock ticking. It was a silence that Sam had not realized would be deafening.

He sat up, no longer tired. He pulled socks on his feet – the cement floor was ice cold first thing in the morning – and opened the door. He peaked around the hallway, curled the stray strands of hair behind his ear, but still heard nothing. Normally ACDC or Kansas would be the soundtrack to Dean’s morning routine. Sam walked down the hall and to the main room where all the books were kept and where they did their research as well as eat their meals. Not a soul to be found. He wandered over to the kitchen. The coffee machine had been used – there was a used coffee mug sitting under the fountain of the machine. Sam touched the mug and felt no warmth, which meant it had been used long before he woke up.

After stomping back into his room, passing by Dean’s door with a quick knock and receiving no answer, he noted the piece of paper being blown about by the fan. He picked it up and found Dean’s handwriting. For a moment, he was reminded of Dad, how he would disappear unexpectedly, leaving Sam and Dean only a note as an indication that he was gone. Dad’s and Dean’s handwriting were almost the same, as were their tendency to write to-the-point sentences. Only difference was that Sam did not feel a sick sense of relief to find Dean gone.

_Runnin’ low on food. I’ll grab what you like. Don’t complain if it’s not organic. Shit’s expensive. Also gotta work on Baby. Gonna find a workshop to take her to. Will be a while. Don’t die while I’m gone._

_\- Dean_

This was a whole new feeling for Sam; he had the whole bunker to himself, and he felt elated. It was like being a teen left alone with the whole house to explore for the first time. He did not have to listen to The Yardbirds for the hundredth time that week or hear Dean spoil major _Game of Thrones_ character deaths when Sam was barely introduced to the character in the book. A sense of uncertainty ran over Sam; he now did not know what to do with himself. He shrugged and decided to lie down. Now that it was quiet, he did not have to be kept up by his brother’s loud morning rituals. He closed his eyes . . . and opened them once more ten minutes later. He was no longer tired; the surprise of silence this morning burned out all sleepiness. No use wasting this precious alone time sleeping.

Sam’s growling stomach lead him to the dining hall, but all that was left was too-ripe bananas, hamburger patties, mayonnaise, peanut butter, and hamburger buns. Sam picked up the carton of orange juice, but it was empty, and he tossed it in the trashcan with an audible thwack. He hated when Dean did not throw away empty cartons. Just to spite his older brother, he made a peanut butter and banana sandwich using a hamburger bun, leaving the hamburger patty to bun ratio uneven. Revenge always tasted sweeter smothered in peanut butter and paired with banana slices.

With the third book of the _A Song of Ice and Fire_ series in his hand, one half of the peanut butter and banana sandwich in the other, and a glass of ice cold water sitting on the table beside him, Sam melted into the chair Dean always managed to steal before Sam could. He felt good; he felt relaxed and at peace. After a few chapters filled with betrayal, sex, and death, and after eating a second sandwich, Sam realized that he was not as relaxed as he should feel. He rocked on his chair more vigorously than usual, sighed quite a lot, and spun in his chair. Perhaps the idea of having the whole bunker to explore by himself made sitting down and reading not as appealing as he thought it would. He popped the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth and hopped up off his chair, leaving the book spine-up so he could finish it later.

He decided, first, to grab his iPod and blast his music, rather than have Dean’s classic rock making the walls vibrate. The sound of The Killer’s best album, in Sam’s opinion, started to follow him through the halls, becoming the soundtrack to his adventure through the bunker. He went to his room to grab some paper and a Sharpie to map the place. He returned to the main room and drew that as the center – for now. The place was huge, and, having multiple floors, it must have multiple centers. This floor he was on would be the _Main Floor_ , and he drew a rectangle with hallways leading out to the kitchen, his and Dean’s rooms, and stairways to the upper and lower floors. 

After mapping the kitchen and taping that rectangle of paper to that of the map of the main floor, Sam laughed at himself. _This is gonna be a shitty looking map,_ he thought. He decided he would later grab more appropriate sheets of paper after he was done mapping everything about this place. 

_“So I ran with the devil,”_ sang the speakers. He ran up the stairs, skipping every other step, and passed the front door. _“Left a trail of excuses. Like a stone on the water the elements decide my fate. . . .”_ It faded as he passed through the first door; it became white noise, something easily tuned out.

The garage. Sam placed the paper against the cold cement wall and drew the layout of the room: slots for the cars and motorcycle that Dean had been eyeballing, the giant garage door, the door from which he entered. Sam’s eyes trailed over the vintage cars left by the bunker’s previous tenants who never returned. He walked over to the empty slot where Dean typically parked his Baby. There was an oil puddle. Sam assumed that’s why Dean had to take Baby in for a fixin’ – can’t have her leaking.

Sam decided to start searching for secret doors and panels, and though he felt childish doing it, he also felt a twinge of excitement, fueled by the child within. What if he did find something? That childish part of him, the same one that enjoyed the revenge peanut butter banana sandwich, wanted to brag to Dean about the secrets he found hidden in this bunker. After searching for a good, maybe, five minutes, however, Sam huffed and wrote _Garage_ in gnarled handwriting (more gnarled than usual) above the diagram of the room in defeat. No secret nooks or crannies here. Sam folded the paper and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans, satisfied with the crunching and crumbling sound the paper made. He continued to crunch it as he hopped down the stairs and also when he pulled it back out of his pocket, taping it to the rest of his map. He sauntered off to the dining room, hoping to find something secretive and mysterious along the way.

Sam softly sang, _“Nobody ever had a dream here. I don’t mind and it’s really getting to me,”_ as the music echoed through the halls. He made a third peanut butter and banana sandwich, making the patty to bun ratio that much more uneven. Take that, Dean, thought Sam bitterly. He sat on the counter – Dean would hate that, probably would shout “Get your nasty ass germs off my counter!” – and chewed every bite slowly, his mind wandering to ways to find secret passageways rather than focused on eating. His wandering mind lead his wandering feet to the kitchen, which was always a tad colder than the surrounding rooms. Sam absentmindedly ran his fingers against the pots hanging above the counter. He opened the freezer door and shivered. He spent all of two seconds staring inside before he decided he was not curious enough to even try going in there and let the door slam shut. Before checking the cabinets – for what reason, he did not know – he took the last bite of his sandwich. With both hands, Sam pressed a hand against the backs of the cabinets, hoping to find a hidden locker or something, but all that surprised him was a ladle falling to the floor in a metallic _clang._

Bending down to pick it up, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. It looked like a black cloud that roiled like a storm cloud and flashed like lightning. When he snapped his head over to look at it, nothing was there. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and his blood pounded. His mouth felt incredibly dry and sticky because of the damn peanut butter. 

What he saw – that was not normal. Inside the bunker, there were no monsters or spooks, as it was warded from ceiling to floor. Nothing that went bump in the night could get in, nor could the monsters get out.

Sam bolted to the corner where he saw the black creature roll through and looked both ways – blocked, only walls. He weaved through the counters, knocked over a pot or two, and barreled to the door. As soon as he entered the hallway, he was tackled to the ground with a force that was as icy cold as it was strong. The wind flew out of his lungs, and he arched his back as he tried to breathe. A numbing pain mushroomed at his chest, and he thought it was his heart pounding too hard; rather, the stinging numbness was not at his heart, but a little to the left. When his eyes came back into focus, and the cement ceiling came into view, he looked down at his chest to see what had attacked him.  
In the midst of gasping for air, Sam thought, _Why does it always have to be fucking demons?_

This demon was in its black, storm cloud form, where it usually travels from one vessel to the next, and it was trying to burrow into Sam through his gaping mouth. The anti-possession tattoo went so cold it burned. The demon smoke had frost on it, and it moved slowly and more uniformly than the average demon moves. Despite that, it still had the strength and willpower to possess Sam.

The demon soon realized it could not possess Sam, and it thundered before it receded, rolling over Sam like fog. When Sam sat up, breathing heavily, heart pounding, the demon smoke was sneaking around the corner, out into the main hallway. Sam tried to get up, but his limbs felt tingly, the same kind of tingly one gets when their leg or arm falls asleep. Sam stumbled against the wall, breathing as if he had run a marathon, and got to his feet. He fell to his knees. He crawled to the end of the hallway, the whole time muttering, “Fuck, legs, come on, work.”

When Sam got to the main room, he had to close his eyes. The lights were flickering on and off, and eventually one burst. The music that was playing before became a garbled mix of static and shrieking. The demon smoke was hovering around every light, swirling around it like a tornado, and then moving on to the next one as the previous light sputtered. Sam’s limbs began to feel again, and he shook them out as he stood up. He had to cover his eyes as the sparks flew and as his pupils tried to adjust to the bright-dark-bright-dark flickering of the room. 

Sam did not know what to do – he couldn’t stab it with the demon-killing knife, for it was out of reach somewhere in his room or Dean’s; nor could he exorcise it, considering it was not inhabiting a body. He ran back to the kitchen to find something – salt, iron, holy water, anything. He grabbed the bag of salt from the nearest counter. _Iron, iron, what’s iron around here?_ he asked himself. After rummaging through all the pots, pans, colanders, and knives, he eventually found iron in the form of a cast-iron pan. It was heavy, looked ridiculous, and had left-over grease from Dean’s last meal on it, but _hell, I’ll make it work,_ Sam thought.

Upon his return to the main room, only one light flickered, the rest broken or burned out, and _When You Were Young_ by The Killers resumed playing. The demon was gone. The room no longer felt cold, nor did he. The demon had frost on it. Sam put two and two together but was still confused – _was the fucker kept in the freezer?_ he asked himself. With a quick look around the room and some of his long hair pushed out of the way of his ears for a listen, he went back to the kitchen. He opened the freezer door, a door he and Dean never opened as they never needed to store massive amounts of anything in there, and found a devil’s trap drawn with an unsteady hand on the inside of the door.  
 _Great observational skills, there, Sammy,_ his inner voice, which sounded too much like Dean, jested. _Now look what’cha did._

 _What the fuck was a demon doing trapped in a fucking freezer, for one,_ Sam replied. _For two, how was I supposed to know that was an actual thing to do?_

Sam decided to go into the freezer – not before propping the door open so he would not get trapped inside – and investigate. It was a sizeable freezer stuffed with incredibly outdated canned and air-tight sealed foods, as well as packets of blood of all different types. That’s not creepy, Sam thought as he picked one up. The blood was black with age. He noted that the packet underneath the packet he had in hand was opened. It was ripped open at the center and nearly empty, with a few flakes of black goop. He looked at the door. The devil’s trap was drawn in what looked like black ink, but Sam started to remember times he and his brother had used their own blood to draw traps and sigils in desperation. He walked over to the door and scratched away at some of the frost that clung to the door. The details of the devil’s trap became clear, and Sam found distinct finger marks. It was drawn using the blood from the packets. It must have been fresh then. What an odd thought.

He went deeper into the freezer. The back wall had frost all over it, and a constant wave of icy air washed over him as he stood in front of it. When he turned to investigate the foods to the right of him, he felt a small puff of warm air. Upon closer inspection, Sam found a small slit, most of it hidden behind packets of congealed blood. He tossed them aside, using the pan as a way to shovel them out of the way, and discovered a small door with two metal rings as handles and a singular slit in between.

 _Well I say_ , Sam thought, _jackpot,_ and he mentally gave himself a high five before he mentally slapped himself. No need to bring up _those_ memories.

He pulled on the rings, and it made a crackling sound – the ice that had formed over the door was breaking. His fingers quickly numbed with the force of pulling on the rings and the cold that seeped into his pores. It took nearly all his strength to pull the door open, and when he finally did open it, his lungs stung with exertion and the frozen air he was heaving. The door opened like a cabinet to reveal a tunnel, and a gust of warm air washed over Sam and thawed him out. He felt grateful for it before the rank smell of a rotting corpse entered his nostrils. He coughed, but could not see the source of the smell – it got darker the deeper the tunnel went. His immediate reaction was to play _Rock, Paper, Scissors_ with Dean to see who would go first, but Dean was not here. He would have to go in, and he would have to do it alone.

After propping the doors open with blocks of frozen cans and blood packs, Sam crawled into the tunnel on his hands and knees. His skin felt like it was freezing over and the sweat collecting on his brow felt like it was turning to frost. He felt number than he had when he was in the freezer. He pulled out his phone and used it as a light the farther he got into the tunnel. It seemed to slide down at an incline, and as he went farther, the air got thicker. A dark, unmoving shape materialized at what seemed like the end, but as he got closer, he realized that the tunnel ended at a whole new room, with the dark lump at the center. It looked human; it was a skeleton with bits of decayed flesh. He saw the remains of an arm. A leg twisted at an odd angle. Neck exposed and cracked. When Sam reached the end of the tunnel and the entrance to the room, he had to crawl at an awkward and almost painful angle to avoid touching the rank body. The humid air in the room made the smell worse than it would have had it been found in one of the many rooms of the bunker.

When Sam tore his eyes away from the pant-suited skeleton, he shone the light upon the rest of the room and found that the walls were covered in chunky bits of rotting and dried organs and long-since dried blood. Hanging from the ceiling was a fleshy skull. Sam forgot for a second that he chops heads off of vampires for a living and jumped back, falling on his ass, half in the tunnel, half out. His phone dropped and turned itself off.

 _Fucking hell, Men of Letters, what were you doing down here?_ Sam asked no one as his phone turned back on. He was thankful for the light once it returned.

He looked up at the head. Its hair, what little it had, was sprinkled with sulfur, as far as he could tell. He brought his hand, the one holding his phone, up to absently scratch at his hair, and the light landed on another body, slightly smaller than the first, torn to pieces off in the corner by a wooden chair. _And that’s the rest of the body._ Sam imagined the demon that was in here tortured the first body, and then tore itself up, or something along those lines. In summary, this room was a find, and not the most pleasant kind.  
Sam was about to leave when he noticed a small leather strap sticking out of the ceiling; rather, it was a wooden door with an anti-demon sygil painted on with aged red paint – could have been blood again, who knows? The strap was just out of his reach, so he used the rickety chair as a step and he pulled on the strap. A ladder unfolded itself, and a dull light came from above, five feet, maybe more. Sam popped his phone in his mouth and pulled himself up the ladder. He could hear his pulse in his ears as he climbed. He had no idea what was waiting for him.

_Thunk!_

“Son of a –” Sam cursed, rubbing his head. He stepped down a few rungs on the ladder and shined a light on what he’d bumped his head on. Wooden railings and – a mattress? He slowly lifted his head, careful not to bump it again, and shined the light to his left and right, though he didn’t need to. Lines of light outlined the bottom of a blanket, a plain ‘ole blanket, one that looked like. . . . He put his phone in his pocket and used both of his hands to shove the wooden thing aside. Bright light nearly blinded him, and he almost hit his head again, but he was free. His closet full of clothes stared back at him. To his left was the desk that held Dean’s note. Sam was once again in his room, and the lights were starting to flicker.

 _Now would be a good time to look for that demon-killing knife,_ he told himself.

He threw open one of his suitcases and rummaged through its various pockets. He and Dean had recently gone on a hunt, and he swore he left the knife in his suitcase. Or maybe the next one. . . . Nope, probably in Dean’s suitcase. He ran out the door to Dean’s room. Once he got in, he remembered the tube of salt he jammed into his back pocket and lined the door with it. Just then, the demon passed by, thundering and crackling as it did. Sam flung salt at it, calling it every name in the book. It actually shrieked, something Sam’s never heard before, and he backed away from the salt line. His blood was boiling and he was sweating like crazy. Luckily, the demon decided not to try and enter the room. Maybe it left. Now, however, it was pissed.

He tore apart Dean’s room trying to find the damn knife. The Killers played in the background – _“With one deep breath, and one big step, I move a little bit closer. I move a little bit closer. For reason’s unknown.”_ Dean would be so pissed when he found his room disheveled, but he’d understand, right? Sam never found the knife, to his frustration; he thus assumed Dean had taken it with him. It made sense. They never thought, never _dreamed_ a fucking _demon_ would be inside the bunker, probably looking for a body, not that it would –

_Thump, thump . . . crackle, crack, sssslide, thump, thump._

Sam could not breathe. His brain was dead and all he could think was, _Those were bones. Those were bones breaking. Whose bones. Whose bones. Not mine, whose?_ His tongue felt like sandpaper as he tried to swallow. He wanted to move forward, but his feet felt numb. He forced himself to take one step, two, three toward the salt line. He froze again when he heard the _crackle, crackle, sssslide, crack, thump, thump._ He took one more step. He had not breathed. His head was starting to hurt, and his lungs were burning. He inhaled deeply and – _GAAAAASP!_ Sam definitely did not make that sound. Something, someone, gasped for air, and they were now right outside the door.

“Lucy,” a voice hissed. “I’m home.”

A body materialized in front of the door, leaning against the wall opposite Sam for support. It was discolored, its eyes were dead and glazed over, and it looked patched together, like a rag doll; however, the legs and arms and wrists were patched together poorly, and they twisted in unnatural angles. Sam recognized the pantsuit, and his heart dropped down to his stomach with the realization: the torn up skeleton with the missing head was now mostly fleshed out and walking. Humpty dumpty was put together again, and this time, it was inhabited. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Sam thought. _You didn’t even think to close the door, you – you fucking moose!_

“Don’t look so scared, human,” it said. If old artifacts had a voice, it would sound like this demon. Unused, broken, dusty, wise. “I won’t be able to hurt a fly until tomorrow, and that is if I am constantly regenerating this damn body. Takes immense amounts of energy to make an old, rotting skeleton like this useful once more.”

Sam heard himself say, “Then why inhabit it if it’ll slow you down?” It broke through the ringing in his ears, the pounding in his chest.

The demon lifted the rotting and broken hand, and it crackled as he – it, for it could have been a she, as the decayed-looking body did nothing to give the gender away – waved. It wiggled each finger individually. “Opposable thumbs. Humans were created with useful appendages. Great for opening doors and the like.”

“Good luck with that,” Sam said, and he inched forward. “You’re trapped in here just as much -”

“- as much as you’re trapped in that room,” the demon finished, pointing at the salt line. Sam gulped, and the demon waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not here to suck out your entrails or to use your ligaments as floss to pick out the bits of heart stuck in my teeth after I slowly devour you. I am too old for such childish things – and frankly, too weak.” 

The demon arched its back, left leg twisting around so the knee was inverted, and wrist bending back in a way no wrist should. The crackling and popping of the bones made Sam flinch, and the demon gasped and gargled. It reminded him of those old _Exorcist_ movies where the demons actually do the head-twisting thing. When he – she – it – was done, the legs bent a little less awkwardly, and its hand was not as limp as it once was. The flesh, however, was still rotten. _Sure_ smells _like it’s still rotting_ , Sam thought, and he coughed.

The demon went deathly still and eyed Sam. It squared its shoulders and straightened its back as much as it could. Its dead eyes seemed to stare straight through Sam and into his soul, and they did not waver. It tapped into Sam’s primal instinct, one that flared his masculinity like a peacock. Sam knew he was being challenged; the demon was sizing him up, and Sam could not help but react. He, too, squared his shoulders. Back straight. Heartbeat soaring. The demon’s lips twitched into a smile, and its eyes rolled over Sam’s body, measuring him. Sam’s eyes never moved.

“Sam Winchester, you are something,” the demon crooned. “A hulking, giant figure of fitness. Strength. Weaned on the blood of my kind. Azazel did well in training up the Boy King.”

Sam snapped, “A little too well, considering he’s now long dead.”

“Not by your hand, however; of this I know,” the demon replied, and then it sang, “ _for the Bible tells me so._ Your righteous brother was meant to pull that trigger, not you, Boy King. You, obviously, were meant for greater things.”

“How do you know me, any of this? You’ve been trapped down there for, what, sixty plus years? What happened to Azazel was nearly ten years ago.”

“It’s what I do, Sam,” the demon answered. “I know. I read your future (and know your past), and from there I make you a deal; I can tell you a bit of your future, something that can save you or someone near and dear, and I make a deal: in return for the forewarning, I get something from you, my choice.”

“Is there any certainty that your warning will actually save me or my loved one?” Sam asked. “Seems like an unfair trade if there’s no guarantee.”

The demon smiled with hooded eyelids, and its shoulders relaxed. _Click._ The milky gray-white eyes turned pale white, like Lillith’s. This gave truth to the demon’s comment about it being old. It was one of the first. A greater demon.

“Are you looking to deal, Boy King?” it purred. Sam stared back with hovering brows and fire in his eyes. The Winchesters have a bad history with demon deals. The demon laughed. “Oh, Sam. It’s certain because not only have I foreseen it, I make damn well sure it happens the way I plan it.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “But why would you do that? You’re a _demon._ ”

“I thought your brother was the racist.” The demon sighed, and dust flew off its pantsuit. “I happen to be very old – not as old as Lillith or Alistair, mind you, but still . . . old. My race of demon is known for chaos, self-mutilation (hence the state of this current vessel when you found it), and overall instability. I am the first of that race” – _Ha! I fucking knew it!_ Sam thought in triumph. _It’s the little things_ – “to be created. I have outgrown (for the most part) the need to cause chaos and swapped it for the power to contain it.”

Unable to contain his curiosity, Sam asked, “What race?”

“If I told you, you’d have to pay up.”

Sam barely had time to process that statement before the demon had another round of bone crackling regeneration. The skin became less gaunt, and the bones less jagged. Still looks like a corpse, Sam thought. Facial features, however, were becoming a tad more prominent. It looked feminine, with high cheekbones.

“So, Winchester,” the demon groaned. It also sounded more feminine. She cracked one shoulder, then the other. They were straighter. “Curious to know what I know?”

With the way the demon looked at him, it was plain she already knew the answer. Sam could not deny her; he could deny himself the chance to learn of her demon race, to explore what she knew, drink up the knowledge that would give him insight into the future. His future. What price, however, was Sam willing to pay in order to quench his curiosity? Could he pay up?

“So, if I ask,” Sam began, “am I agreeing to pay the fee?”

“More or less.” Her vessel’s neck no longer hung to the side, as the neck muscles began to regenerate and become stronger. She sat up straighter. She was becoming stronger.

“Do I get to know what the price is? Is it my God damned soul? That’s usually what the asking price is.”

She held up a decaying finger in protest. “First, your soul is not damned by God, nor has it been, despite your previous actions and decisions.” Sam rolled his eyes as she lowered her nasty finger. _Why is it that ancient beings of supernatural origins never understand sarcasm?_ he asked himself. 

“Second,” she continued, “sweet child, I am no cross roads demon, like that impudent and pious Crowley and his tactless minions. No. It is not your damaged, but willful, soul, Sam Winchester. You’ve lost it once. I do not intend to deprave you of a soul once more.”

“Then what is it? What could I have that you want?”

“A way out of here,” she answered. Her hair hung limply in her face. It covered more of her head, became fuller. “You are the vessel on which I will ride out of here quickly and without expending so much energy.” She blew the hair out of her face. “I am running on fumes trying to put humpty dumpty back together once more.”

“You’re asking me to let you fucking possess me?” Sam roared. The force of his outburst thrust him forward. He was close to tipping over the salt line. “I’m not that idiotic.”

“Either way, I will possess you, Sam Winchester,” the demon replied. A wave of energy burst from the demon, and the salt-line became non-existent. Same fell onto the floor and his hair flew back out of his face. The gust was a biting cold that nipped at his skin and made his eyes water. Sam averted his eyes from the demon not in fear, but in what he hated to admit was awe: with that burst of power, the vessel became nearly whole, and the skin looked a pale cream with spots of discoloration rather than being completely rotted. _This is it,_ Sam thought pathetically, _This is when the demon peels off my tat and forces her way in._

Then it all stopped. 

The demon slumped against the wall and wilted with a thud. Sam had never seen a demon gasp for breath so much, nor has he seen one put a hand to its nose and pull back to find bloody fingers. The demon lifted her eyes to meet Sam’s, but he saw no hint at hat she was thinking. He just stared her down, and they were once again measuring one another. She did not enter the room, though she could have.

“In a few months,” said the demon at last, “I will possess you, and if it is the first time, it will be paired with the borderline torturous removal of your anti-possession symbol. Not by my hand.” The color, what little she had, began to leave her face. “Sam, when I possess you then, I will be on your side.”

“But _why?_ ” Sam interjected. He stood and stomped to the door. “Why would you be on my side? I have done nothing to help you or any demon I’ve come across. I ought to send you back to hell, and that’s letting you off easy. Dean and I hardly ever leave any demon we encounter alive. So why the hell would you help me?”

The demon only stared. She watched Sam with cloudy, milky-gray eyes. She ignored his question and asked one of her own: “Do we have a deal?”

Despite himself, Sam nodded. What possessed him to nod was beyond him. His instinct said, _No, no, no!_ His intuition, however, told him that jumping on the chance for insight into his future was a very smart thing indeed.

“Then you know what comes next.”

Sam walked over to Dean’s pillow with calculated steps. He was conscious of every move he was making. When he pulled out the pocket knife from underneath Dean’s pillow, he was hyperaware of the fabric rubbing against his skin, both the feel and the sound. Like this morning. He gracefully removed his T-shirt over his head in one pull, and when his hair fell back into place, the tingling of the ends tickling his neck made him squirm. Perhaps his body was relishing in being able to control itself before it lost it to the demon.

“What’s going to happen?” Sam asked. His palms were sweating. He had to tell himself not to drop the damn knife. “Is it going to be me facing death, or my brother? Castiel, maybe?”

The demon did not hesitate to answer. “You and I will save Dean.” Sam’s fingertips went numb. “In a few months, you are going to want me on your side, as I will be summoned to work with the ones who have been plotting against the archangels.”

“What?” There could be either two species plotting against the archangels: demons or angels, and neither are exactly easy to take care of. One cannot simply salt and burn an angel, nor can they a demon. _Who would be dumb enough to take on the archangels?_

“I will be summoned,” the demon continued, “and I will be asked to possess you; I will be ordered to do something you would rather die than do with your own two hands.” The demon paused to let her words seep into Sam’s pores so he would understand what he could prevent. Then, she continued: “All I am asking for in return is a way out of here, and your fit and very alive body will serve as my _borrowed_ vessel until we meet again.”

The only thing Sam questioned was why he said, “Then let’s get started,” before she even finished. The demon raised an eyebrow. She did not expect that either.  
With one swift movement, Sam cut a single line through his tattoo. It barely stung. The blood dripped down his chest in a thick stream of crimson. Then Sam took a deep inhale to ready himself for the loss of control.

A scream suddenly echoed through the halls, and Sam realized, after a moment, that it was his own scream. It became dark. His mind was fuzzy. Chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and when they pulled on him, they pulled him to his knees with his arms flung out beside him. An ache started at the back of his brain and worked its way to the front. His limbs felt separate from him. His breath did not feel like his own. His thoughts were not alone.

 _Listen well, Sam,_ said a deep but feminine voice. The demon. _First, the Angel of Thursday will be captured, and your brother will make the decision to save him. But he will be careless and unprepared. His decision will result in his death – rather, it would have had we not made this deal. When I possess you once more, you will have no recollection of me, nor will you remember my warning._

_Then how am I – ?_

_Remember the first words I spoke to you, Boy King. The very first words._ Then she chuckled, and crooned, _Lucy, I’m home._ Sam remembered. It felt like ages ago he was cursing himself for leaving the body open for the demon to possess. _We can then, together, save your brother . . . well, as much of him as we can._

 _What the fuck does that mean?_ Sam demanded. _I didn’t sign the dotted line for some half-assed rescue mission. We will save all of him, you hear me?_

_By the way, Sam . . . you can call me Sheila._

\---

When Sam came to, he saw that he was half inside the bunker, and half outside; from the torso down he was inside, and he was on his stomach, as if he was about to walk through the door before he passed out. When he tried to stand up, his joints cracked and popped, and he assumed he had been out for . . . God knows how long. Sam had no memory of passing out or leaving the bunker. _Something_ in his gut told him he had found . . . something . . . and he was trying to get rid of whatever the hell it was, and . . . something about . . . something.

_Very insightful, there, Sammy,_ said Sam’s inner voice. _Something told you that you found something and that you were trying to get rid of that something because of some reason. Whatever that something was bonked your grapefruit harder than ya thought._

When he got up and walked inside the bunker, the next thing he thought was, _Fix the traps. They’re ruined. Fix the traps._ And so he did. He first fixed the ones on the front door, where he woke up. He felt machine-like in his actions. He did not know why he had to fix the traps, but when he found them they really were ruined. He only knew he had to reset the stupid things. He reapplied paint where needed and replaced herbs where they had gone missing. It became busy work, something to keep his mind off the itching at the back of his brain, and the block that kept him from remembering how he passed out. He started to remember bits and pieces, however, for example: the messed up traps, mostly demon ones, as well as a body he found in front of Dean’s room. When he went over to said body, it lay in waiting for him. He could salt and burn it out in the woods, somewhere far from the bunker where Dean would not notice it. The same voice that told him, _Fix the traps, salt and burn the body,_ was also telling him, _Don’t tell Dean. Not a good idea._

It smelled fresh outside, but it was also moist and muggy. Made him feel even grosser than having to touch the body as he dragged it out of the bunker. He groaned. Whatever happened to this body must have been intense – it looked like a patched up rag doll, for God’s sake. The more he looked at it, the more familiar it became. Memories of it being mobile, to Sam’s distaste, attacked his brain, though he did not fight it. Had no signs of being a vampire or shifter. No sulfur. It just looked dead. It made no sense. But he went with it. 

Sam threw the body down and set to digging. The dirt was easy to dig with the moist air. The digging went by faster. When he was about to roll the body into its new grave, he paused. Tucked into the front pocket was a note that was forced out with the constant moving and shoving and oddly angled positions. His giant and calloused hands had hardly been as gentle when he handled the note, as it seemed ready to crumble to dust with the slightest touch. He put it in his back pocket for now. Salt and burn the body first. He could wait to read it; it could reveal nothing, so he could be patient. That relentless itching at the back of his brain, however, told him, _Read it. Read it. Read it._

Once inside, Sam made himself comfortable at the table in the _Main Room_ (so it said on the map he made earlier – now that he remembered). He felt uncomfortable; his skin crawled and he felt himself sweating all over. He wiped his palms on his pants before pulling the folded note out of his pocket. He opened it and found faded hand writing. It was rushed, messy, and was nearly the same color as the gray-cream of the note. But he managed. 

_Upon finding this, it read, my body will most likely torn and disassembled. She promised it would be; she foresaw it, and so it shall come to pass. The Men of Letters tried to contain her, harvest her power, and use her knowledge of the future for our gain. We were fools. Such fools. We evacuated. Only I and my colleague were left to trap her and banish her. All we could do was trap her, and even that took every ounce of our strength. The freezer was a mistake, as her and her race thrive on the cold. We should have known better. Do not make our mistakes your own. If you have found me, you must have freed her. Do not trust her. Old and wise she may be, but she is still Legion, and they are merciless; they are the harbingers of chaos and bloodshed. She is coming for me. This is the end._

And then it ended. 

Sam had to resist the urge to throw the note as far away from him as he could. His fingers went numb, and his legs felt like jell-o. Did he unknowingly release a demon? Why does he not recall this? He started to pant. It was too hot in here. His head felt as though he took a blow from a sledgehammer as he racked his brain trying to find any hint as to what this note could mean. He heard metallic rattling in his ear, but it was not his brain making that sound -- it was the garage door. _Dean._

The door leading to the garage opened just as Sam put away the note. He held his breathe and tried to calm his heart. He stared up at the door with what he hoped was an indifferent expression. A sweaty, grease-stained Dean barged through with bags of groceries in hand. He had a smile on his face as he looked down at his little brother. “Lucy,” he crowed, “I’m home!” 

All at once, the note made sense. He remembered everything. Finding the demon in the freezer. Leaving the trap door under his bed open on accident, resulting in the possession of the body he just salted and burned. More importantly, he remembered the deal that he made to save his big brother. The demon told Sam that he would have no recollection of her come the time she would possess him again, but she perhaps could not prepare for an accidental reveal by an unsuspecting Dean. No, he thought, she could predict. It’s what she does. Sam then tried to cover up his recollection with a smile, but it was weak. _What do I do? What do I do?_

Dean’s smile faded and he walked down the stairs with a grimace. “What’s eatin’ you, sunshine?” he asked. A trail of grime followed him to the table. He smelled of paint, burgers, and oil. He plopped the fast food bag – hence the burger smell – and the bag of groceries on the table and took his jacket off. He eyed the crappy hand-made map and scooped it up. “Anything, uh, interesting happen while I was away, Columbus?” 

Sam had two options: he could come clean and tell his brother about the demon deal, which would also warn him about the near-death experience that was predicted but would be prevented, as were the terms of the deal. Or, he could keep this information from his brother; he could go the Winchester route and not reveal any of this to his brother. He has hidden things from Dean in the past, as has Dean from Sam. It was simply a part of their brotherly affection for one another. But would Sam tread that path once more? 

Sam grabbed the grocery bags and shrugged at his brother. He did not have to think long and hard about his decision. 

“Nah,” he answered. Flipped his hair out of his face. “Did some exploring, but everything there was to be found was, well, found. Thought about getting a haircut, though, but I decided against it.” 

“Fuck, man, why?” Dean growled. He smiled. “Let me do it, Sammy, it’ll take less than five minutes, three minutes, tops. No more mop, please. I’m beggin’ ya.” 

Into the dining hall they went. Sam did not mention the demon, the deal, nor did he mention the almost death Dean would ultimately face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs are mentioned throughout the text, but I'm gonna put them here anyway. In order from beginning to end, it goes:
> 
> Bling (Confession of a King) - The Killers  
> Sam's Town - The Killers  
> When You Were Young - The Killers
> 
> Unmentioned songs in the chapter but go well with it are:  
> Exiltude - The KIllers  
> Read My Mind - The Killers
> 
> I'll have other songs -- most are instrumental -- posted throughout the series. I'm the kind of person who likes to listen to music that fits the mood of the scene/ what I'm reading, like a show or a movie, so I thought I'd post the songs that I thought fit well with what I was writing. I hope you like it, if you choose to listen to the songs!


	2. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was unaware that ‘busy’ could also mean ‘fornication’ in your human slang,” Castiel argued. “That is why I asked once I arrived. I did not think it was something that, when interrupted, would cause so much distress among you and your sexual partner.”

_Dean Winchester,_ he thought to himself, _you have really outdone yourself with this one._ Hazel, a lawyer, was short and curvy with thick thighs, a full figure, and flowing hazelnut hair. When Dean introduced himself to her, she was only a witness to the most recent demon attack that he and Sammy were taking care of. Tonight, however, she was Dean’s fantasy become reality, and, more importantly, his distraction. 

He had barely closed the door to his hotel room behind him when he grabbed her waist, slightly squeezing her voluptuous curves, and grinned into a kiss. She tasted of the “appletini” or whatever that fruity drink was called, and it gave a sour zing to her lips. He put her bottom lip, the fuller one, between his teeth and gently tugged, prompting a soft giggle from Hazel. She tugged at the collar of his (technically Sammy’s) flannel and slid her hands down to the hem of his black undershirt. Dean let out a satisfied sigh as she lifted up his shirt just enough to gently stroke her fingers against his hip bones. _It’s the simple things in life,_ Dean thought. Like the seductive and gentle caresses from a beautiful woman.

Dean’s phone began to ring and vibrate, omitting guitar riffs from his back pocket. “Ignore it,” he was about to say, knowing full-well that it was probably just Sammy, but he swallowed his words and let out a chuckle when Hazel snaked her hand around the bare skin of his hips and to his back pocket. She took her time in retrieving it. Dean thought better than to protest. 

He broke away from her, allowing her to concentrate on taking his flannel off. He decided to check the caller ID during the small break from being entwined with Hazel. To his surprise, it was Castiel’s name popping up on his phone. Dean remembered that Sam said he would call when he found out whatever new intel God’s little helper ( _Don’t think about Cas, definitely don’t think about Cas,_ Dean desperately thought) had for them, not Cas. It just had to be Cas. Dean pressed “ignore” and maneuvered his arms to allow his undershirt to come off. His anti-possession tattoo was exposed. She did not comment like other women sometimes do, nor did she notice it. The dark room was in a spot that the moonlight could barely touch, so the two were mostly in darkness. The only sounds that broke the silence were the exchange of wet kisses and the inhales or sometimes satisfied groans taken in between.

The phone started buzzing again, guitar riffs adding to the sound of satisfied groans, and Dean pulled apart from Hazel to press ignore again, but not until he was done slowly lifting her top above her head, dragging his fingers lazily up her torso, caressing her curves. With one hand Dean stroked Hazel’s round cheek and leaned down to gently kiss her again; with the other hand, he threw the phone onto the bed adjacent his, Sammy’s bed, and then slid his hand down her back, his fingers fumbling with the clasp on her bra. As they removed more articles of clothing off each other, they made their way over to Dean’s bed. 

Dean was thinking of nothing but Hazel – at least, he was trying to. Now that the phone broke his concentration, feeling Hazel, an undoubtedly beautiful and downright sexy woman, and her sensuous entirety against his body. . . . Something in Dean just deflated, and he no longer felt into the sex that was about to happen. Sure, his body was saying _Fuck yeah, let’s get this goin’,_ but a voice in the back of his mind said, _But it’s a meaningless one night stand. Don’t you want more?_

 _Nope, not getting’ into that. I ain’t openin’ that can of fucking worms,_ Dean replied to his inner voice.

The phone started ringing as the two crashed onto his bed. Dean was too busy exploring Hazel’s curvaceous body with his hands and lips to get up and ignore the call again. Besides, knowing who was on the other end of the call was distracting him from what was supposed to be his distraction. Still, the phone kept ringing. The damn baby in a trench coat could get really annoying sometimes, but now all that Dean was thinking was, _Answer the phone. It’s just Cas._ His heart leapt painfully. Now not only was he not into the sex, he was thinking of, well, the last person he wanted to think about during sex. To distract himself from thinking of the angel, Dean grabbed a handful of Hazel’s ass. The phone, however, kept ringing, and Dean was starting to get frustrated.

 _Cas, stop calling, I’m busy,_ Dean prayed to the angel. ( _So much for not trying to think about God’s Boyscout,_ he scolded himself.) He meant the prayer sarcastically, but he realized his mistake too late.

“Hello, Dean,” a husky voice greeted.

The high-pitched scream that came out of Dean’s mouth was unrecognizable from Hazel’s.

“I’m assuming ‘busy’ can be used as slang for fornication?” the husky voice asked.

“ _Dammit,_ Cas!” Dean growled, desperately trying to pull his pants up.

Hazel let out squeaks of, “Who _is_ that? Fucking _perv!_ How’d he get in here? Has he been here the whole time?!” as she quickly grabbed her clothes.

“I have actually been _outside_ the room this whole time, not inside,” Castiel contradicted, and Dean put his head in his hands. Why should he even try? “I was waiting for you to be done with whatever you were doing – which I realize now was sexual intercourse – to discuss our next plan of attack.”

Suddenly Hazel screamed, and Dean nearly fell over with shock. He looked at Castiel to see what could have made Hazel scream.

“Cas!” Dean reprimanded. He quickly got up to try and snatch the blade from Castiel – God knows why he brought it with him, and why he didn’t wipe off the blood from the demon earlier today – but Hazel slapped Dean across the face with an audible _whack_ before moving on to Castiel to do the same. Dean rubbed his cheek, trying to keep his howl of pain silent. The angel seemed to be indifferent to being slapped, and instead seemed very curious.

“Fucking axe murderer!” Hazel screeched. “What kind of fucking friends do you have, Dean?” She pushed Dean away when he tried to explain and slipped her pants on. Dean yelled at Cas to “get the hell out” and tried to tell Hazel it wasn’t like that at all, but she interrupted him with a scream as Castiel went “invisible girl” and vanished. Dean thought he was going to pop a blood vessel when Castiel made the situation worse by returning a second later with a confused Sam clutching a book beside him.

Hazel did not even bother to put her shirt on before running out of the room, telling Dean to eff off when he tried to explain the situation the best way he could. She nearly slammed the door on his hand on her way out. 

Dean reeled on Castiel and his younger brother. The angel stood with his arms hung loosely at his side, head tilted, and eyes squinted with concentration. Sammy, on the other hand, was covering his mouth and trying hard not to laugh, though his shaking shoulders gave it away. He saw the blade in Castiel’s hands and snorted, nearly letting a full-blown laugh out.

“What the _hell,_ Cas?” Dean bellowed, sauntering over to Castiel. “I said I was _busy!_ ”

“I was unaware that ‘busy’ could also mean ‘fornication’ in your human slang,” Castiel argued. “That is why I asked once I arrived. I did not think it was something that, when interrupted, would cause so much distress among you and your sexual partner.”

Rather than argue further, Dean waved a dismissive hand at Castiel, pulling up his unbuttoned pants as they began to slide off with his other hand. He was done trying to explain. He gathered his shirt and started to put it on while Sam and Castiel discussed the new information they shared about the sudden and strange demonic activity in this town and others across the country. Dean, remembering something, suddenly reeled on the two: “And why the hell did you bring Sam? As if this room wasn’t crowded enough.”

Sam answered, “I was just doing research on what Cas had just told me when out of nowhere he disappeared for, like, a half hour, and then came back and told me that you were not ‘focused on the task at hand’ and needed help ‘regaining focus.’ Next thing I know I’m here, cock-blocking my big bro.” A smile spread across his face. “So, you focused on _the task at hand_ now, Dean?”

“Shut up,” Dean growled, slipping his arm through his (Sammy’s) sleeve. He let out a deep sigh. “So, what d’you have to say, Cas? What was so important that you couldn’t wait till after I was done?”

“After you were done _fornicating?_ ” Sammy asked with a devilish grin. Dean stood deathly still and thought of the various ways he could wipe the smile off his little brother’s face: he could punch it off, cut if off with the blade Castiel brought, rip it off with his bare hands. . . . The possibilities were endless.

Suddenly, Castiel spun around and looked at some unknown spot on the wall behind him, his eyes distant and his head tilted to the side. Dean and Sammy looked at each other a moment before walking over to Cas to study his face. His eyebrows furrowed and he cocked his head side to side, as though he were trying to hear something better. He turned again and pushed past Sam and Dean. Dean’s skin crawled; some unknown force brushed against his skin, like soft and gentle fingers sliding against his forearm and making gooseflesh rise. He kinda liked it. _No he didn’t,_ Dean scolded himself.

“Hey, Skywalker,” Dean asked, rubbing the spot where the ghostly fingers brushed him, “is there a disturbance in the force or something?” 

Castiel did not answer. The only sound that came out of him was the fluttering of feathers before he vanished.

“ _Now_ you leave, you _sonofabitch!_ ” Dean shouted, punching his fist against the air and stomping his foot in frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no music suggestions for this one, so listen to _whatever_ you like! ;)


	3. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He marched to the window to spy on the happenings from within. Inside he saw a face he recognized standing before a display most foul. She stood with flowing hazelnut hair and a seductive grin, staring down at the bloody scene before her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See below for music suggestions!

The house in front of which he stood was quiet. The wind caused the tree beside it to brush branches and leaves against the second-story window, just as it caused Castiel’s feathers to rustle against each other. The chill did not bother him. He was mostly indifferent to it, especially when his focus was on the demonic presence he sensed coming from this general area. Castiel unfolded his wings instinctually, reacting to the heavy feel of a demonic manifestation in the air. Demons, no matter from what religion they originate, always cower at the sight of an angel with wings on display; at times that is all it takes to render the demons inept. No matter how hard they fought it, demons could never withstand the purity of angel wings.

A splash of water hit the space between Castiel’s eyebrows, trickled down his nose, splashed against the feathers on his wings. Again he felt the drop, one on his cheek, the other on his forehead, his lips. It had begun to rain. The angel had recently found fascination in the rain after visiting a young soul’s heaven in which they were constantly dancing in the rain. Since his last visit, he had wondered what was so wonderful about the rain that made it worthy of a soul’s heavenly landscape. 

He caught site of a human male and his female companion a few houses down from where he stood. As they walked onto the front lawn, they lifted their hands towards the sky, twirling and laughing and cheering. It had barely begun to rain, and the two were celebrating? _Or is this some kind of successful attempt of the ritualistic summoning of rain?_ Castiel asked himself. His head tilted to the side and he squinted, deep in thought, as he studied the humans. He reminisced on the human race’s early days, when they had once thought that rain was brought by the gods; humans used to dance and chant in religious and ritualistic fashion to bring forth rain to dispel the dry seasons. Was this a human celebration at the supposed success of summoning rain? No, that was not the case, Castiel realized. This age of humans was hardly religious in that sense, and these two humans in particular were not rhythmic in their twirling. They splashed in puddles that were starting to form and smiled up at the sky before sticking their tongues out to catch the fresh rain. 

Castiel’s wings adjusted and flickered, just as a human twiddles their thumbs, as he pondered. He stuck his hand out to catch rain in his cupped palm, just as the male human was doing, just as the young soul in its heaven does, and watched as a small puddle formed. The male suddenly pulled the female close, pressed his lips against his female companion’s lips, and lingered there. A pang of longing burst in his chest, and he pushed it down. The female pulled away. The jingle of her laughter chimed in Castiel’s ears. He continued to watch as the two humans got into a car and drove away from him.

The sudden burst of yellow light from within the nearby house caught Castiel’s attention once more, as did the nauseating feeling of a demon. Pure, white hot angelic power, originating at his core, spread through his entire body and consumed him in response to the presence. His wings spread out wide. Rain droplets slid off the oily surface of his feathers, splashing against the ground in an audible crash. Castiel found it surprisingly soothing.

He marched to the window to spy on the happenings from within. Inside he saw a face he recognized standing before a display most foul. She stood with flowing hazelnut hair and a seductive grin, staring down at the bloody scene before her. Castiel’s heart skipped a beat in response to the surprise at what he saw next: she sashayed towards the body with a bowl in her hand, her wavy hair billowing out behind her, the demonic face underneath the human one so repulsive and ugly that Castiel could not look at it for too long. She bent down, collecting blood flowing from the neck wound of her victim in the bowl in her hands. Looking down at her neck, Castiel thought he saw new lip-shaped bruises splotched across it . . . ones that Dean Winchester had marked her with not too long before.

Castiel’s eyes began to glow with the sudden burst of angelic energy running through him, and the demons inside caught wind of it. By the time he teleported inside, a bright, baby blue glow shining off his palms and from his eyes, the demons had disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Peterson ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WSW6TyMS-uI) \- The American Dollar


	4. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel’s grin faded. “I wanted one of you to investigate the outside of the house while I quickly searched inside. I didn’t realize you two would barge in. But no matter.” He looked down at his coat and brushed off dust. “There’s a room that has been warded against angels, and I need one of you to come with me to get in after we investigate the body. The other must search outside for anything suspicious.”

“ _Now_ you leave, you _sonofabitch!_ ” Dean shouted, punching his fist against nothing but the air and stomping his foot in frustration.

Sam Winchester chuckled. While Dean brooded over the silent and socially awkward angel, Sam sat down at the small desk parallel to the door and wrote down key points he remembered from what he researched and what Castiel had told him at the library. His handwriting was sloppy and slanted as he quickly wrote down the information before it left his brain. He stood up and walked over to the coffee machine, writing as he went along, which only made his handwriting even less legible than it already was. The hiss of boiling water filled the silence of the room.

“Man, tonight was supposed to be great,” Dean muttered, plopping down onto his bed. Sam looked up from his writing to look at his older brother. The sheets and comforter were askew, wrinkled with the almost love making, and the bed creaked as Dean propped himself up to fix the pillow that had been moved from its original spot. Dean dramatically plopped down again and added, “But I guess I’m kinda glad I didn’t bang her, know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t, because it’s _you._ ” Sam shrugged. “I thought you were pretty into it by how angry you got.”

“I was about to have _sex_ and fricken _Cas_ just pops in without a warning, how was I supposed to react? Doesn’t matter now. It was gettin’ a little . . . _eh_ towards the end anyway.” Dean scoffed. “And it got real _eh_ real quick once I saw Cas.”

“I’m trying _not_ to read between the lines,” Sam murmured.

“What?” Dean grunted.

Sam cleared his throat and sputtered a reply to Dean’s previous statement: “Yeah, well, you know – Cas is drawn to awkward situations like a moth to a flame.” He jotted down notes and ignored the stare he knew Dean was giving him. “Who else would have barged in on you fornicating?”

“Shut up with the fornicating, Sam!” Dean growled. The bed creaked. “What are you writing?”

“What Cas told me and what I researched,” Sam answered. He clicked the pen. “I wanted to get it down before I forgot. I didn’t know how long you were gonna pout.”

Dean got off the bed, walked over to Sam, grabbed the notepad he was writing on, and whacked Sam on the back of his head with it. Sam yelped in pain and rubbed the sore spot while Dean went back to his spot on the bed. 

Dean sat a moment reading, and then asked, “Wait, what are these places?”

“Cas said they’re spots in which he sensed the most demonic activity.” Sam stuck out his hand and waved Dean over, pointing at the notepad. Dean scrunched his nose and furrowed his brow. He then shook his head and mouthed “no” and pulled one of his legs up to cross against his knee. Sam dropped his hand and gave his brother a pointed look before he continued his explanation. “It fits with the omens I noticed. Lots of electrical storms and livestock deaths. Castiel also said that these places were significant because angelic vessels live there.”

“Are the demons gonna shred the meatsuits or something?” Dean asked. “They know that won’t do much, right? Angels can resurrect the dead.”

“Cas thinks the demons are trying to occupy angelic vessels themselves to keep angels from reaching out to them and trying to possess them.” The coffee machine beeped, and Sam got up to retrieve the pot and pour himself a steaming cup of coffee. A pinch of sugar, a dash of cream. As he stirred, he continued: “The thing is, though, is that I checked to see if any of these people made the missing person’s – that would suggest either demonic or angelic possession – but only, like, three of them were on there.” Sam sat down in his chair, blowing on the steaming liquid. “They’re unharmed. I think the demons are planning something big to do with them, for sure, but Cas and I just don’t know yet.”

“Are they gonna . . . _collect and . . . keep angel vessels . . . hostage?_ ” Dean brought the notepad closer to his face as he read the last part, trying to decipher Sam’s hand writing.

“It was a thought,” Sam admitted bashfully. “We don’t know much about what these demons are planning, Dean. We’ve been so focused on the angels.”

Sam stood up, mug in hand, to go and add more sugar to his coffee. He always put in too little. 

“You have poor judgment when it comes to picking sexual partners, Dean,” said a gruff voice from nowhere.

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin and he spilled hot coffee all over himself. The mug slipped from his grip and crashed against the tile floor by the bathroom. The musical jingling of breaking porcelain rang through the room, harmonizing with the sound of Dean’s cry of “ _Dammit_ , Cas!” Sam placed his hands on his hips and glowered at Castiel, who stood unaffected by the daggers Sam shot him.

“I was drinking that,” Sam muttered, tiptoeing over the shattered remains of the mug and the puddle of hot coffee it bled to retrieve the dustpan and cleaning brush. First, he changed his shirt and wiped down the wet spot on his chest, and he hissed at the burn that was starting to kick in.

“And what do you mean I have _poor taste?_ ” Dean asked, his arms outstretched, almost like an invitation for a challenge. “I have _great_ taste. Did you see Hazel? Thick thighs, curves like oceanic waves, some meat on her bones. She was a nine outta ten, man!”

“But she didn’t have blue eyes or a trench coat,” Sam said under his breath. He nonchalantly picked up the tiny pieces of his broken coffee mug.

“Wanna repeat that, Sammy?” Dean said softly, and with an angry flame in his eyes.

“Yes, I saw her,” Castiel answered, ignoring the both of them. “I saw her collecting the blood that flowed from a dead human’s slit throat for demonic communication.”

Sam stopped picking up broken pieces of mug. Dean blinked a couple times, eyes bulging, and fist clenching and unclenching as he mulled the news over. Sam chuckled, and said to his brother, “I think you should add _demon_ to your long list of women with which you’ve fornicated.”

 

Dean pointed a finger at Sam. “Doesn’t count if I got interrupted! Besides, your list of women you’ve banged ain’t all human either, asshat.” He pointed the finger at Castiel. “And she was not a demon when we were about to fornicate, so how could that have been her wherever she was at?”

“The disturbance I felt before,” the angel answered. The broken pieces of mug clanked against each other when Sam dropped them into the trash bin. “She was most likely being possessed at that moment.”

“Maybe because she was just so emotionally compromised after the almost fornication,” Sam contemplated, “she became open to demonic possession.” Dean slowly turned to look at his younger brother, eyebrows hovering over wide eyes intent on murder. Sam felt the daggers, but he kept on smiling. “Nice one, Dean. You didn’t even fornicate and this happened.”

Dean flipped Sam off, but it did nothing except make Sam laugh. The angel looked confused, _but what else is new?_ Sam thought sarcastically.

Sam stopped picking up the pieces of broken mug and looked up at Castiel. “You know, you can help me with this since you were the one who caused it.”

“It would be beneficial for you if you learned to take responsibility for your own actions, Sam,” Castiel replied. 

“Yeah, _Sam,_ ” Dean added childishly.

“Besides, you can attend to that later,” Castiel added. “We need to go back to the house inside which the demons were performing the ritual.”

“We?” Dean emphasized, pulling a Cas and squinting his eyes and tilting his head. The realization hit him when Castiel walked over to him, hand extended, two fingers reaching for his forehead. “No, no, no – !” he protested, but it was too late. He vanished. Sam would have found it comical if he were not being transported as well. He had barely begun to stand up when Castiel placed two fingers against his forehead and transported him to the mystery house.

Transportation was an odd form of travel. Yes, convenient, and to Sam quite intriguing. The head rush, however, was anything but pleasant, and the feeling of nausea that washed over him every time he was transported was something he could never get used to. Because he was in a half-crouching, half-standing position when Cas had touched his forehead, Sam landed in front of the house awkwardly trying to catch his balance. He fell on his hands and knees onto the wet asphalt and hissed. Lifting his hands, palms up, he could see the faint pink blush and tiny beads of blood start to form from unseen scratches. Street lights illuminated the surrounding area, but because they were shitty street lights it was still dark. Being dropped in an unknown place in the black of a rainy night was unnerving. Sam’s heart started to beat quicker. His eyes flickered to every corner.

“That was so graceful, Sammy,” Dean said from somewhere, and Sam jumped. “I can sorta see why you’re called _Moose._ ”

Sam pushed himself up off the ground and groaned, “Shut up.” His hands stung, and they stung worse when he tried to wipe off the dirt off his pants. He hissed again. “So where are we?”

“Dunno, but I have a feeling this is the house Cas was talking about.” Dean gestured toward the house behind him with his thumb. “Door was locked, so I peeked inside. Couldn’t see much, but candles are still lit and what I could see . . . it ain’t pretty. Some dead guy covered in blood. The usual.”

“The usual,” Sam sighed. No use even mentioning how sad it was that a dead and bloody body left by demons was the usual for him and his brother. That conversation was one he did not want to touch with a ten foot pole.

Dean waved Sam over, and the two of them walked to the front door, a decorated, white, double-door slicked with some unknown substance. Sam looked at Dean, the two of them nodded at each other, and Sam began to count down. “One . . . two . . . three!” The two of them ran at the doors at full speed. Sam braced himself for the impact against his shoulder. The crash sent a jolt up through his arm and to his neck, a sharp pain that dulled quickly with familiarity. As soon as he crashed through the door, before he could regain his balance, he ran into someone and fell to the floor with an audible “oof!”

Dean had started to ask, “What the – ?” but then began to laugh. “That’s what you get for not beaming us aboard, Scotty,” he chuckled. “No fun getting charged at by a moose, ain’t it?”

Sam realized the groaning person beside him was Castiel, and he scrambled up to a sitting position, letting out a chorus of, “Oh shit, sorry Cas, really sorry, I didn’t know, sorry!” Castiel grunted as he, too, sat up, knees bent and elbows resting against them. He was actually grinning at Sam. 

Sam stood up, and Castiel said, “Not every day that I get knocked over, Sam,” with a grin. Sam grinned back and offered a hand to Castiel. Sam was surprised when the angel took it, and when Castiel was on his feet, Sam patted him on the back. 

“Didn’t know you were that easy to knock down,” Sam joked. Cas grinned wider. “Coulda zapped us in here in the first place, though.”

*Castiel’s grin faded. “I wanted one of you to investigate the outside of the house while I quickly searched inside. I didn’t realize you two would barge in. But no matter.” He looked down at his coat and brushed off dust. “There’s a room that has been warded against angels, and I need one of you to come with me to get in after we investigate the body. The other must search outside for anything suspicious.”

“I guess I’ll go outside in the rain, then,” Dean announced. Castiel pulled the demon blade from his pocket, and Dean gently took it from his hand, careful not to snag himself. Rubbing his shoulder, he called, “And don’t kill each other while I’m gone.” He threw Sam and Cas a smirk over his shoulder and stomped out the door.

Sam made his way down the hall, Castiel following silently behind. He was almost on Sam’s heel. Now Sam knew what Dean meant when he said Cas had a “lack of personal space.”  
Sam was about to walk into the room from which the dull candle’s glow emitted when Castiel suddenly said, “I have no feelings of hostility for you, Sam, I don’t understand where he got the idea.”

“He was kidding, Cas,” Sam said offhandedly, concentrating on the bloody display before him. He was searching for a light switch on the walls beside him when the lights flickered on by themselves. He looked around for the source and found Castiel lowering his hand. He was staring down at the body and the demonic marking carved into the floor around him. Sam recognized a few, but not all.

“Some of these are angelic in their origin, others demonic,” Castiel said, kneeling down beside a pair of strange markings. He touched them gently, outlining them with a finger. He pulled back quickly, as if he had touched a hot stove. “Anti-angel.”

The dead man’s face lie in a puddle of his own blood, most of which came from his neck. Splotches of crimson spread across his body. He was laying in an awkward position for a dead guy. Arms twisted in ways that they are not supposed to, legs turned in ways that meant they were probably broken. Whether he was purposefully displayed this way after he died or if he was mangled before he died was unknown, and Sam did not want to think of it. Thinking of the pain this guy must have gone through made it hard for Sam to look. He walked across the room to examine the collection of bones and feathers and herbs atop a pillar. Candles surrounded it, just as candles surrounded the body, and those candles, in turn, were encircled in an unknown symbol. 

“I’m not sure what this stuff does, but I do know one thing,” Sam commented, eyes widening, as it dawned him. “This is some serious stuff, Cas. _Real_ serious.”

“I know.” Sam turned to face him, eyebrows furrowed. “Last I saw them, this earth was still young. It was unmentioned in the Bible, but these symbols were laid outside the door of the house in which the disciples were serving their house arrest. They are used to imprison archangels, but it has to be activated when the archangel is possessing their vessels. It puts them in a cage not unlike the one that holds Lucifer, except the ritual requires one very heavily emotional connoted ingredient. The demons did not take that ingredient into account, and so the rituals never worked.”

Sam was thrust into a memory that happened months ago, and a voice, a female voice, crooned at him: _“In a few months, you are going to want me on your side, as I will be summoned to work with the ones who have been plotting against the archangels.”_ Sheila. The demon he met at the bunker. Her prediction.

Sam rubbed his temples. _No way could it actually be happening now,_ he protested. _I spent the past few months trying to track that damn demon down. Nothing. But . . . but it adds up. The archangels are being plotted against. Her prediction could be coming true, and if so . . . we are in for a hell of a trip._

A _thud_ from some other part of the house, a thud that did not match the pitter patter of rain, made Sam nearly jump out of his skin. Castiel did not flinch. He looked as he did back at the hotel, with his head tilted from side to side, eyes squinted, looking off in the distance and sensing something Sam could not. Silently, as per the usual, he sauntered out of the living room and back into the hall, and Sam followed him. His heart pounded against its chamber within his chest. His body reacted quickly to the feeling of danger; the flight-or-fight response was kicking in, and Sam was ready to fight. It felt like the flight part was all but gone, as he had been drilled since he was young to fight, fight, fight. The problem was that he was unarmed, with only the holy-fire-filled angel whom he followed down the hall as means of defense. He felt naked without a weapon. He searched every corner for something he could use, but he gave up when they reached the end of the hall.

Another _thud_ made Sam jump, and his muscles tensed, ready to defend himself. Again, _thud._ Castiel abruptly pushed past Sam, taking off like a shot towards the room that emitted the thudding. He lifted his hands towards the door, his fingers curling in like claws. Sam assumed he was trying to open it with telekinesis, but the warding across the door kept him from doing anything. The doorknob jiggled, and family pictures hanging on the wall cracked and exploded, and the shards of glass flung themselves at the door. Sam saw the worry etched on the angel’s face and put a hand on his shoulder. When Cas understood, he lowered his hand, and Sam barged into the room. Two dark figures danced. The whip of a knife cutting through air sang in Sam’s ear. It all happened so quickly, and before Sam knew it, the knife hit home, and a yellow glow outlined the skeleton of one of the figures. Dean’s face flickered with the illumination from the dying demon. 

Sam thought it was over until a scream exploded in his ear, and suddenly a body from the corner of the room stood up, a shadow against the opened window. Sam could do nothing but point, but Dean already knew it was there. Joints cracked and its head turned in odd ways, breaking neck bones. _“Almost time, almost time,”_ it whispered, and something cracked, like bones. Sam’s flesh crawled. Demons don’t do this; they don’t act like this in real life, only the movies. It charged at Dean, and before Dean could stab it Sam charged at the demon and pinned it against a wall. 

_“We gather, we gather, we trap the winged devils, we trap them,”_ it – a man, Sam noticed – whispered again, and this time it chuckled. Dean silenced it. Its eyes flashed yellow, and then it collapsed.

The lights flickered on, and Sam blinked, taking in his surroundings. Dean, wet and dripping from the rain, stood before him breathing heavily. There was a cut on his lip and a rip on his flannel – _Hey, that’s_ my _shirt!_ Sam thought – exposing his shoulder and a gash. 

“Girl was . . . dead before the . . . fucker possessed her,” he breathed. He wiped his mouth and winced. “And I’m assuming this guy was, too.” He pointed at the second body that attacked him. “I also found this” – he pulled a flyer out from his back pocket – “outside, along with sulfer.” His eyes roamed the room. “But I think this room is a better clue than mine.”

Sam grabbed the flyer and Dean walked around him to scratch out parts of the angel wards. As Castiel walked in, he and Sam examined the room. It was covered with the same flyers that Dean had found, except they were tattered and dirty and had droplets of blood splattered on them. They were all for the same place, but Sam could not believe it. 

“A flyer for an _amusement park?_ ” Sam asked. He gawked at Dean, who shrugged. “You can’t think that – ”

“Oh I don’t think, Sammy –”

“You’d need a brain for that – ” Sam interrupted.

“I know – _hey,_ ” Dean protested, pointing a finger at his brother. “The demon was crazy, man. Whispering something about a gathering there. You heard the shit it was saying.”

“A demon family trip to an amusement park,” Sam chuckled, but the laughing turned sour and he frowned. He scrutinized the two bodies, taking note of the stains of crimson on their clothes, like the body downstairs had. Sulfur powdered the corner the second body occupied. “I don’t know, Dean,” Sam sighed. “I’ve never seen a demon act like that.” 

“Which is why we have to investigate,” Cas insisted. “This is a town in which more than a few vessels reside.” He looked down at the dead girl and boy, who Sam guessed were no more than sixteen. “These two siblings were vessels. I shall revive them and take them to the town’s hospital. Their memories of being attacked will be erased.”

“So does this mean what I think it means?” Sam asked. “Are we really going to investigate an _amusement park?_ ”

Dean clapped once, and with a wide smile on his face he said, “C’mon, Sammy, when was the last time you got to be a kid, huh?”

“That’s a question that will bring up repressed childhood memories,” Sam answered sarcastically, “that you really wouldn’t want to hear.”

Dean snatched the flyer and pointed at the bottom. Sam read it, and his heart jumped out of his chest. Dean laughed at seeing the panic on Sam’s face and threw his arm around Sam’s shoulders. “. . . _with a clown parade in honor of April Fools starting at noon!_ ” the big red letters read. Sam was frozen, mortified.

“Aw, fuck,” Sam huffed.

“We’ll get to take a picture with ‘em, Sammy,” Dean chuckled. “I promise!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you read, "Castiel's grin faded," (seen also in summary) is when I recommend that you start the music. There will also be a (*) beside it to remind you. Just sayin'. It added more atmosphere when that song was paired at that moment and from then on. ;)
> 
> [In Illusions of Order ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZY_Bbat1EM)\- Red Sparowes


	5. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Was that flirtation?” Cas asked Dean as he clutched the handle bar in front of them.

Dean could not remember the last time he got excited at the thought of going to an amusement park. Growing up the way he did, there was no use in daydreaming about such things. There was never a reason for John Winchester to take his two sons to an amusement park unless there was a case. Sam always asked to go, and Dean always told him to shut up about it. Now that they were actually in an amusement park, Dean wanted Sammy to try and have some fun. He looked around at the groups of people and smiled at everyone, not caring what they thought or even if they were demons. 

“Dean, you look like you’re a five year old coming to Disneyland for the first time,” Sam criticized. “It’s weirding me out.”

“Aw c’mon, Sammy,” Dean said, clapping his hand on his kid brother’s shoulder and squeezing. “You used to bug me about coming when you were a kid. Doesn’t this make you at least a little excited?” Dean’s eye wandered to a food stand for giant pretzels. “Oh, big pretzel. I need it.”

Castiel stepped in front of him to block his path. “We are not here merely for your enjoyment, Dean. We came here on a mission.”

“Listen, James Bond, we don’t even know if the fricken demons are here right now,” Dean argued.

“So why are we here?” Sam asked.

“For the rides, Sammy! When do we ever get a day off? Look, the two coo-coo for cocoa puffs demons last night whispered about a demon pow-wow comin’ up and we have reason to believe it’ll be here. Cas even said that two other vessels work here! Let’s act natural so we don’t look suspicious and actually enjoy this theme park!”

“I am a celestial being that is older than this planet,” Castiel announced. “I am not here to enjoy myself.”

Dean grabbed the angel’s trench coat. “Not with that attitude you ain’t!” He smiled wide and pulled the angel towards the line for the rollercoaster nearby. “Think of it as undercover work, Cas, and you’ll survive. Let’s go ride the biggest rollercoaster they got.”

Sam stayed glued to his spot in the midst of the crowd. When Dean called for him to come along, Sam shook his head. “I’m going to go around and investigate. Try and find at least one of the vessels to make sure they’re okay.”

“Whatever, Sammy.” Dean kept pulling on Cas’s trench coat and was surprised that he didn’t fight it. “Call me in” – Dean turned to look at the wait time for the rollercoaster he had his eye on – “an hour and a half, got it?”

“Okay, mom,” Sammy mocked. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and turned a heel. Dean watched him walk away. He was surprised at how okay he was to let Sammy just wander off by himself into a huge crowd with the suspicion of demons in the area. Dean had to remind himself that Sammy was a big kid, he did not need his big brother to hover over him all the time. For a second, Dean imagined a ten-year-old Sammy running around with a huge smile on his face and the jingle of his laughter in the air. 

If only.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, snapping Dean out of his reverie. When Dean looked at him, the angel asked, “Are we to ride this ride or not?”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Dean replied, a smirk on his face, “I’d say you were excited to get on the rollercoaster.”

Castiel looked down at the ground timidly. “It is purely to remain in my undercover character as a homely human enjoying the day at an amusement park.”

“Right-o, homely human,” Dean chuckled.

The line was moving at a steady pace. Dean and the angel did not have to stand in one spot for too long, and it was mostly in the shade. The breeze blowing past them made Dean shiver and cross his arms. Then he looked at Castiel. Dean wondered if the angel even felt the cold, and if he did, was he even bothered by it? Castiel was too busy looking around with suspicious eyes to notice Dean watching him. The angel rubbed his fingers together and tilted his head when he noticed something, but then he suddenly looked behind him at something else. The couple behind Dean and Cas jumped when the angel looked at them. Dean started to laugh.

Castiel tilted his head at Dean and asked, “What?”

“You’re weird, Cas,” Dean answered. “What’s your deal?”

“I sense a strange amount of excited yet terrified energy around here and I don’t understand why. I don’t sense the demons.”

“People are excited to get on the ride, and I don’t think it’s terror as much as it is excitement.” Dean pointed at the front of the line, where people were getting into the cart of the roller coaster. A small kid, probably no more than ten, was jumping up and down in his seat excitedly as his parent tried to strap him in. He had a smile so wide that it was all Dean could really see of the kid. Overhead, people already on the ride screamed as the tracks made a sudden drop and a twirl. “See? Excited! Cool your jets, Cas.”

“Um, okay,” Cas replied, and then he took a deep breath. They moved forward in line. For a moment it was silent between them. The murmur of the crowd, mixed with the sound of screams from the ride and laughter from kids, reverberated in Dean’s ear. _It’s nice, for once, to hear screams of excitement rather than screams of panic,_ Dean thought, and he was only half-joking. 

Castiel, out of nowhere, asked, “So, Dean, how is your day going?”

Dean raised an eyebrow at the angel. He scratched his jaw and answered, “It’s, ya know, goin’. I mean, it’s goin’ a little weird right at this very moment, but it’s goin’.”

Cas nodded like he understood completely, and Dean leaned in closer with squinted eyes and a furrowed brow. “Good, good,” Castiel responded. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the railing separating one part of the line from their spot in line. He looked at the railing and kept fidgeting. He gave up trying to get comfortable and sighed loudly. “That discovery we made last night. That was . . . that was strange, was it not?”

“Are you making small talk with me, Cas?” The angel looked down at his feet and pursed his lips. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight, but then he started to laugh. No matter how awkward Castiel was, Dean could not help but find it endearing, and damn it, it was adorable. He dropped his hand to his side and grinned at the angel. Cas was measuring Dean’s response, eyeballing him with the curious expression he often wears. Dean chuckled again and answered, “Yeah, it was pretty strange. A room decorated with flyers for an amusement park with such feverish intentions by demons is something you don’t see every day, especially _demons._ ” Dean laughed at his own sarcasm.

“Actually, Dean, we do see that every day.” Dean raised an eyebrow at Cas. The angel nodded in understanding, making an “O” with his mouth. They moved forward in line. They were close to the end.

“They sure went to great lengths to keep you out of there,” Dean mused. “We didn’t find much – well, nothing worth keeping an angel like you out.”

“I wouldn’t say a ‘dead vessel’” – Castiel made air quotes – “is ‘nothing much’” – and he made air quotes again. Dean rolled his eyes, and peeked at the couple behind them to make sure they didn’t hear exactly what the angel said. “They were trying to keep the brother and sister locked in there, dead or not, to make sure no angel could get to them. It was a poorly done job, but that was because they did not finish their ritual.”

“What kind of ritual was it, again? Sammy told me but sometimes when he talks all technical about lore all I hear is _blah blah blah._ I tune it out until I figure out how to kill whatever we need to kill.” He leaned against the railing, placing his hands on the bars and looking at the rest of the line. He realized how quickly the line was going. It hadn’t even been that long that they had been in line, and they were only about ten or so people from the end. “Sammy can be pretty boring sometimes.”

“You should have listened, Dean, it was very important,” Castiel chided. Dean shrugged. “If we had not caught onto the demonic activity in this town and interrupted their ritual, we would have soon found a caged archangel, and there are already so few.”

“I don’t know, man, that doesn’t sound half bad.” Dean grinned over at Cas, knowing that he would take offence and not get his sarcasm. Castiel squinted like he usually does when he’s contemplating, but this time his eyebrows made a very distinct V and he clenched and unclenched his fist. Dean leaned over and lightly pushed the ticked off angel. “I’m joking, Cas. It’s called sarcasm.”

They moved forward in line, and they were stopped right before they could get on. Dean smiled at the person counting how many people were coming in, a young man with a crooked smile and dark eyes and dark hair to match. The guy gave Dean a once-over, and Dean’s heart skipped a beat. He wished the guy didn’t do it in front of Cas – not that the angel noticed anyway.

“I was paying attention when Sammy told me, but I was exhausted, man,” Dean told Castiel, who was still slightly steaming. He pursed his lips at Dean and did not let up on the daggers he shot him. “What I do remember is that the demons have to do this ritual thing at the right moment, when the meatsuit is _occupado_ , so the archangel can be trapped in a cage like Luficer’s.” Castiel’s tense shoulders sagged, and he sighed. “Is that all I really need to know?”

“For the most part, yes,” the angel answered, his words heavy. “I did not give Sam much about the details of the ritual, but that was because he recognized them and knew what they entailed. With those two demons that you killed, so unstable. . . . Now you see why I cannot ‘cool my jets.’” He made air quotes again, and Dean laughed. “But perhaps I should try. Just for today.”

Dean patted Cas on the back, then crossed his arms. “Just for today.”

The rollercoaster pulled up just as the sound of screams pierced their ears from above. Castiel perked up like a dog catching sight of a squirrel, and he tilted his head, surveying the cart and the people that climbed out. Dean smiled at the angel. He had to remember that Castiel was not human, though he looked it and acted like a socially awkward human. He was an angel, a heavenly soldier that did not act on his impulses and thought everything out. There was never any reason for Castiel to visit an amusement park, let alone hop on a rollercoaster for the heck of it. Purposefully putting oneself in a fearful situation for the fun of it was a foreign thing to him – hell, Dean still didn’t know why he wanted to so badly to ride the fricken ride when airplanes scared the shit out of him. _When am I gonna get the chance to enjoy myself like this, at this place, again?_ Dean asked himself. _When is Cas? We deserve to have fun, dammit!_

The dark haired and dark eyed employee smiled his crooked smile at Dean and ushered him and the angel in. Dean repaid the favor and gave the employee a once over. He liked the way others reacted to that, and the employee did not disappoint: dazed and confused he was, and Dean smiled to himself.  
Castiel stood awkwardly in place, staring at the tracks, until Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed a fistful of trench coat and pulled. Cas jolted forward, broken out of a reverie, and stumbled beside Dean. He watched as Dean climbed in to the first cart. Dean’s heart pounded, and that little voice in the back of his head whispered, _Ya know, this is the scariest seat to ride in._ He told his mind to shut up and waved Cas in. The angel stiffly climbed in, unsure of how to move his body, and sat down with a plop. He grabbed the buckle and stared at it curiously. Dean grunted, “Seriously?” and buckled Cas in like a child. It made it worse that Castiel kept squirming, adjusting and readjusting his shoulders. “You’re like a five-year-old!” Dean growled. He pulled the restraints down over his head and waited for Cas to do the same. He did so slowly, and Dean checked the restraints to make sure he was in tight enough.

“Can you lift your arms for me, please?” a female employee asked. Dean took notice of her bright smile, and returned it with cocky one of his own. He lifted up his hands, and when he noticed that Cas was not he elbowed him. Cas raised his arms, and the employee girl checked both of them. “Thanks,” she said, and she winked – not at Dean, but at Cas.

“Was that flirtation?” Cas asked Dean as he clutched the handle bar in front of them.

Dean, blushing wildly, slightly jealous, gripped the hand rails on the restraints tightly. “It was something,” he grunted. He looked at Cas and found him wearing a small grin and a pink shade against his cheeks. The dark haired guy with the crooked smile did give Dean an once-over. He and Cas were even.  
Another employee started to announce the rules of keeping “hands and feet inside the ride at all times.”

“Ready to fly, Cas?” Dean joked, but he was starting to feel a slight panic set in. The height of this roller coaster could get pretty high, and the drop, from what he saw, was intense.

Just as Dean was starting to question his excitement for this ride, Cas replied with a question: “I don’t understand?”

Dean answered with a startled jump and a, “Jesus,” as the coaster took off in a jolt. Castiel was scanning the scenery as it changed, and peered over the edge as they started to climb the big hill. Dean breathed in, out, in, out, but he stopped because he was afraid he would make himself panic even more. He jumped when Cas tapped his knee and grinned over at him. Dean rolled his eyes and swatted Castiel’s hand away, blushing madly. He stared straight ahead . . . not like it helped any because all he saw was sky because _I had to pick the fucking front seat of the damn ride!_

“Oh, I get it now,” Cas announced, eyes bright with a sudden realization of which Dean had no inkling, and before he had a chance to ask, they plunged down the drop, and Dean screamed like a banshee while Castiel went bug-eyed at the sight of the drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No music this time!


	6. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Of course there’d be clowns here,_ Sam thought, and he clenched his fists, his grip on the flask of holy water so tight it started to hurt.
> 
> See the end notes for music suggestions!

Sam had wandered around for almost an hour before he found the area for which he searched. He parked himself on a bench that was out of earshot but within eyesight of the game corner, the place at which one of the known vessels worked. People of various ages waited in line to get a chance to throw a ball at a tower of bottles to win a giant stuffed animal. A gust of cold wind bit Sam’s nose and ears, and sent wisps of hair flying in his face. He swatted them away and accidentally hit his own nose, and he rolled his eyes at himself. He angled himself towards the wind so it would not blow his hair in his face and wrapped his jacket tighter around himself.

Sam’s heart started to pound and his chest felt tight as he witnessed the scene before him: a clown carrying balloons snuck up behind some kids waiting in line and scared them. He and the kids started to laugh when he bonked his own nose and smiled wide with his overemphasized red lips. Sam shivered, and when a breeze blew past him he shivered harder. He was glad that he was a fair distance away from the clown. Still, it was unknown if there were any of his rainbow-wigged, huge footed, and blood-red-lipped buddies out of eyesight, and the thought unnerved Sam. He now felt surrounded, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, clutching the flask of holy water like it was the demon-killing knife, which was tucked into an inside pocket of his jacket. Not only did Sam have to keep an eye out for demons, he now had to be weary of clowns sneaking up on him.

According to Castiel, they only knew that the two vessels they were looking out for worked here, but not exactly what they did, so their exact locations were unknown. When they dug up information the night before, Sam could only find where the female vessel, Johanna Franklin, worked inside the amusement park, and that was at the game corner, which he was watching now. Logan Miller, the other vessel, was at an unknown location in the amusement park. He would be harder to find, considering his shift was also unknown. It would not be a big issue if Sam did not suspect a demonic gathering happening at this amusement park, because he, his brother, and Castiel could just stake out his house and protect him. They did not have that luxury, so all Sam could do was look out for Johanna, who should be . . . _there._ Right on time. At least, it looked like her from _way_ over here.

She was of average height; a curvy girl with milk chocolate-colored skin and black hair. She looked older than her ID picture portrayed. Her smile was wide and white, and she took over the shift at the game stand at which a lady clown was making balloon animals. _Of course there’d be clowns here,_ Sam thought, and he clenched his fists, his grip on the flask of holy water so tight it started to hurt.

Sam took a deep inhale, an equally deep exhale, and repeated. He stood up, grabbing the empty soda can beside him, puffed out his chest, and squared his shoulders. The clowns would _not_ scare him. There was a job that needed to be done, and he would not let the clowns intimidate him. He marched forward, eyes fixated on Johanna until he realized how stand-offish it appeared, so he tried to march forward more casually. His heart thumped furiously in his chest, and his palms started to sweat. He decided he would engage in conversation with Johanna by waiting in line for the game she was monitoring. _Fuck. Go away, clown!_ Sam thought viciously as the first clown he saw, the one with the balloons, came towards the line he was in. At least the lady clown that was at this particular game had walked off by the time he walked over.

He was a couple people away from the beginning of the line. “Oh!” he barked, remembering something. As subtly as he could, he transferred some of the holy water from his flask to the empty soda can. A deep, guttural chuckle tickled his ear, and he tensed like a coil. Looking to his left, he saw the nasty clown with the balloons standing a few feet away from him. He was nodding slowly, giving Sam a subtle thumbs up. He winked at Sam before walking away. The guttural chuckle echoed in Sammy’s ear, and he shivered again. He went up in the line, and he barked another, “Oh!” Pulling out a phone, he called Dean.

When he hit voicemail, he muttered, “Hey, I found vessel 1. Game corner. Vessel 2 is still unknown. I’ll call you after.” He hung up just as the small girl before him chose a small stuffed animal and skipped away.

“Aren’t you a little big to play this game?” Johanna asked with a husky voice. She leaned against the counter that separated her and Sam, putting her elbows down and her chin in the palm of her hand. He smiled at her. “And by a little big I mean _big_ big?”

Sam laughed, and it was genuine. “Yeah, maybe, but I told my kid I’d win a prize for him while he rode the big roller coaster, the one over there?” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

Johanna smiled wide and let out an, “Aw, how sweet.” She handed him the toy gun and three suction-cup bullets. “Shoot straight, then, Mr. Dad.” She bit her lip and leaned her elbows on the counter, fingers tapping against her arm. Sam could not help but notice how pretty she was. He thought better of it. She was jail bait . . . and demon bait, but he _definitely_ did not want to think about that.

He put the soda can filled with holy water down beside her arms and he put his trick in motion: as he pulled away, he subtly flicked the can and let it spill on her hands and arms. Feigning a shocked reaction and an apology, he carefully watched hers. He waited for her to scream and for her skin to sizzle; instead, she told him, “No, no, it’s okay! I’m good. I have younger sisters and they’re always spilling stuff on me, don’t sweat it, Mr. Dad.”

_Phew,_ Sam thought, and he smiled at her and apologized once more. A shade of pink painted her chocolate-colored cheeks. _Well, that’s a relief._

This game that Sam had gotten in line for was one where Sam had to shoot the three targets, with each ring giving a prize, and the closer to the bulls-eye he got, the bigger the prize. Of course, being a hunter and having been trained for the majority of his life to shoot straight, Sam dominated. Johanna laughed and accused him of cheating, but Sam shrugged bashfully. _You’re such a pedophile,_ Dean’s voice teased in Sammy’s mind, and he told Dean’s voice to shut up. Sam chose the giant pink bunny plushie as a prize, and he said goodbye to Johanna. He turned around and found the lady clown standing directly behind him, and a high-pitched yelp escaped his lips, one that came from deep within. He bent over, putting his hands on his knees, taking deep breathes. Johanna laughed at him and he smiled nervously and hoped no one saw his blush, one that crept down his neck and made his ears hot. He had to try not to run away.

Once he regained his composure, Sam decided to pray to Castiel. It was faster than calling Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ghost Towns](http://youtu.be/9MUA9hoDa40) \- Radical Face


	7. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel saw something out of the corner of his eyes, far over to his right. He took a few steps, pushing past Sam, to get a better look. It was only a second, but he thought he saw a stream of black smoke circling its unseen prey like a vulture before it dove. Buildings and rides blocked its descent, and the location at which it swirled overhead was unknown. Castiel did not know if it was a trick of the eyes or if it was actually demons; whether or not he saw a demon, he knew there was one somewhere in this park of human amusement. The gnawing pinch in his gut was enough evidence for now.

Castiel sat on the bench beside the exit to a ride in which he had no interest. It held many individual swings, spread out in rows, which spun around a great pole in circles. It had made Dean outwardly excited, yet he showed signs of inner discomfort while waiting in line for it. Why he got on the ride was a strange decision indeed to Castiel, and he puzzled over it the entire time Dean rode on the ride. Following the spinning with his eyes, focusing on Dean in particular, he watched as Dean’s genuine smile turned to one that was forced. Castiel had discovered that, after spending so much time with Dean, his genuine smile made the corners of his eyes wrinkle, and his smile spread across his whole face and to his bright green eyes. Castiel had decided Dean’s forced smile was less pleasant. It was even less flattering when a green shade spread over his face as he spun round and round.

_Perhaps it was curiosity that made him ride the ride anyway,_ Castiel thought, nodding to himself. _I can understand that. But why do something that makes you ill?_ On cue, Dean retched into the trashcan beside the bench, and Castiel watched not only with curiosity and a tilted head, but with worry as well.

Dean moaned, “Oh, son of a – ” and he burped loud and long.

Castiel jumped, not expecting the belch, and his wings twitched. He hissed with pain. His hand immediately went to his shoulder to rub the spot where a sharp pain emerged. It shot through the joint where his wings connected to his back. The pain dulled almost as quickly as it came, but the soreness materialized in his shoulders, where most of the weight was bared. Grimacing in pain, he slowly unfolded his wings just as Dean sat down to Castiel’s left. He felt his feathers brush Dean’s shoulders and the back of his neck.

Dean let out a disgusted “yuck,” and he twitched and shivered. He scratched the back of his neck. Castiel did not apologize, and instead sighed deeply when his wings were stretched out to their full length. Riding the roller coaster more than two times had really taken a toll on his wings. They were cramped and squished for too long, and stretching them out felt too good to care how it gave Dean the chills. Dean reeled and tried to catch a glimpse at what was touching him, but because humans are unable to perceive the pure and heavenly image of an angel’s wings, he saw nothing. He scooted farther away from Castiel. It did little to help him. Castiel’s longer primary flight feathers barely brushed his neck, and so Dean tried moving closer to Castiel. That worked better; however, having Dean so close made the angel’s cheeks burn.

Castiel asked, “Are you feeling better, Dean?” He examined Dean’s face and posture for any signs that suggested a more serious illness. Dean’s complexion, however, had returned to normal and he seemed relaxed, so perhaps his nausea had passed. “Do I need to heal you?” he asked Dean anyway.

Dean studied Castiel with furrowed eyebrows and squinted eyes. Whether it was that of suppressed hostility or genuine curiosity, Castiel could not tell, although he thought it to be the former. Regardless, Castiel returned Dean’s expression with a curious one of his own. 

“You mean you could have healed me the whole time?” Dean inquired with a growl. “I didn’t have to puke my guts up?”

“It did not seem to be a serious illness, so I let nature take its course,” Castiel answered honestly. He rolled his shoulders, wincing as joints popped and tension relaxed. His feathers rustled with the breeze. “Do you require refreshment? Vomiting requires you to hydrate yourself after you have expelled the toxins.”

“Thanks, doctor,” Dean replied sarcastically. He folded his arms. “A big ‘ole thing of water would be nice, actually.”

Without skipping a beat, Castiel had teleported himself to a nearby market. He made sure to land in an inconspicuous place outside the doors. He folded his wings in, careful not to go too fast and injure himself, and walked through the doors. He walked over to the isle that held water bottles and jugs, and he grabbed two tall water bottles. He was about to teleport out again, but decided to take the opportunity to mirror a good human and pay for the waters. He strolled to the cashier, tucking his wings in tight while walking through the skinny isles, careful not to knock anything over. It has happened before.

“I would like to purchase these for my companion,” Castiel announced, placing the water bottles on the counter. The cashier, a young woman with blonde hair and freckles, gave a hint of a smile. She smiled wider when Castiel pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, careful not to crinkle them. He laid the paper currency out on the counter beside the water and watched at the cashier woman curiously. He grinned, and she grinned back.

“Gave me too much,” she giggled, handing nearly half of the cash back to him. He grabbed it slowly, careful not to crumple the paper currency further. She tapped a few things on the cash register and asked, “Would you like the receipt?” with a sweet and quiet voice.

“The waters are enough, thank you,” he replied, and grinned once again as he grabbed the waters. “Thank you, and have a nice day.”

She waved as he walked out. “You, too.”

As soon as Castiel was outside, he vanished. A second later he was sitting beside Dean once again. Dean had stayed in the same position he was in before, except this time he was scowling at Castiel. Not knowing what to do to make Dean cease his scowling, he held the water bottles out to Dean, eyes casted down at his shoes. Dean sighed, and when Castiel took a peek at him he saw that Dean was shaking his head with a smirk. Snatching the waters from Castiel, a little too aggressively, he said, “Thanks, Cas,” and opened one of the bottles.

Castiel sat quietly while Dean drank, and his eyes wandered around, watching the crowd. He has never been to a place where there was such enthusiasm and fear mixed together. It was not terror-filled fear, not what Castiel usually senses; instead, it was an anxious fear, a fear that sent adrenaline pumping through these humans’ veins and had them smiling as they screamed down the roller coaster’s drops and twists and turns. He did not know how to express the increase of arousal and anticipation that built up in his body the first time he went on the roller coaster with Dean, so he just sat with tense limbs. The second time, he watched Dean. Dean had shown distress both times they went on the roller coaster, and expressed both relief to get off and the desire to ride it again. It was fascinating. Except the giant swing that made Dean sick. That ride was bad, and since it made Dean vomit, Castiel did not like it. 

He had not realized, but he had stopped surveying the people around him and had been staring at Dean for far too long. Dean stared back. His eyebrows made a small V and he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Castiel blinked. When the angel started to realize what he was doing, Dean raised his eyebrows. Castiel looked away bashfully, cheeks burning, thumbs twiddling, and wings adjusting and readjusting. He went back to surveying the crowd and looking around for a different rollercoaster, one that had more loops than drops. Castiel wanted to experience the adrenaline going upside down brought him. The giant swing was to his left, as was the first roller coaster they rode (so far, his favorite). Straight ahead and a few hundred feet away was a water ride that looked as though it were pleasing to the humans that rode it; however, Castiel did not want to get wet. Beside it, and sitting closer to Castiel and Dean, was a giant pole that brought a group of strapped-down humans sitting in a circle surrounding the pole incredibly high before dropping them in a free fall. The individuals coming off that ride were windblown with red cheeks and huge smiles. Castiel could hear their nervous laughter. One of the humans, a young male, shouted, “Let’s do that again!” 

“That one,” Castiel declared. He lifted a finger to point at it just as more people boarded.

Dean asked, “What?” and followed Castiel’s pointed finger. He squinted up into the sun, estimating how high it went up, counting off unknown numbers on his fingers. Castiel lowered his hand and tapped his fingers against his knee. “You want to ride that one?”

“I thought I wanted to go on a ride that had more loops and upside-down turns, but when I saw this one it seemed to please the humans that rode it, so I therefore wanted to try.” He stood up. “Are you feeling well enough to try it, or shall we sit longer?”

“Callin’ me a wuss?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

Dean chuckled before taking a swig of his water. He handed Castiel both bottles and he stuffed it into an inside pocket of his trench coat. Dean stretched his arms out wide, leaning to the right, then the left. His hip bones peeked out beneath his shirt, and Castiel tilted his head. Dean rolled his shoulders and his neck before he exhaled sharply. Castiel tilted his head to the other side. Dean clapped and said, “Let’s do this.”

“That’s what I was suggesting,” Castiel clarified.

Following Dean, Castiel got in the short line. He watched as the people already on the ride climbed higher and higher, his excitement growing. “What a human experience,” he said to himself. Dean scoffed, and then followed Castiel’s gaze. Higher the people on the ride climbed, and they soon came to a stop. Castiel could barely hear their anticipatory chatter before their screams hit his ears as they shot down. Dean’s eyes bugged out of his head, but he relaxed when they came down to a slow and steady halt at ground level. 

As the previous group got off the ride, the new group, including Castiel and Dean, got on. Ignoring his cramped wings, Castiel strapped himself in. He looked to Dean for approval. A sense of pride washed over him when Dean gave him a smileless thumbs up. Castiel, noticing Dean’s distress, told him, “The likelihood that you will fall is unlikely, but should that happen I shall catch you.”

Dean punched Castiel’s shoulder. “Don’t talk like that, Cas!” Dean snarled.

“My apologies.” Castiel swung his dangling legs like a child and watched as Dean relaxed. 

The ride attendant announced that they ought to keep their restraints on during the whole ride. _They have requested this of us before. Why would anyone unhook their restraints while on the ride?_ Castiel wondered. They began to make the ascent to the top of the giant pole. The view was beautiful. The sun was barely surpassing its mid-day position in the sky, and the wind blowing through the trees made their green color ripple and shine like oceanic waves. Colorful dots scattered the streets and sidewalks of the amusement park. Castiel tried to count each soul that was in the park with him. He looked at Dean, a shining soul among thousands, who was more or less calm. The breeze was stronger up here, and Castiel could tell it was irritating Dean’s eyes. They began to water as he squinted against the wind.

_Castiel,_ Sam’s voice called. Castiel looked around, scanning the crowd below. The ride stopped. _I found Johanna at the game corner. If you’re not busy, come on over._

“I shall meet you at the game corner,” Castiel told Dean.

Dean’s grip on the handle bars on his restraints tightened, and his knuckles turned white. “You’re not doing what I think you’re – ”

“Enjoy the ride for me,” Castiel said, and just as they were about the drop, he left to find the game corner of which Sam spoke.

When he landed, he was in the midst of a crowd, surrounded by families and many smiling humans going about their day. In front of him stood Sam Winchester, scanning the crowd, looking for something. In front of him was a row of different activities in which younger human children were taking part. Castiel watched as a child was handed a huge stuffed toy. Castiel assumed that is where Sam got the one he held in the crook of his arm. Sam looked around at the different faces of the people passing by, scrutinizing their walk and demeanor, possibly searching for any signs of a demonic presence. He glanced every now and again at Johanna, the angelic vessel, before shivering at the sight of a rainbow-cladded human with overemphasized makeup.

“There is no demonic activity around here, Sam,” Castiel announced.

“Jesus,” Sam wheezed, turning around dramatically to face the angel. He clutched the toy in his hands fiercely, and the pulse on his neck was visible as it drummed. He rolled his eyes after regaining his composure. “Castiel, could you at least announce yourself next time?”

“I would suggest disposing of the toy,” Castiel answered. “It is drawing too much attention to you.”

“Right,” Sam agreed. He found a nearby family and offered it to them, and they obliged. Castiel tilted his head when the child of the family, a small girl, waved at him with a smile. He waved back cautiously, his lips pursed. Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and walked back to Castiel.

“Johanna seems to be unharmed,” Castiel pointed out. The girl, dark skinned and bright eyed, was exchanging friendly compliments with another human. “And unpossessed.”

Sam sniffed. “I checked that already.” He squinted at Castiel and then looked around, turning a heel, checking behind both him and the angel. “Where’s Dean?”

“I left your brother to enjoy the ride.” Castiel pointed at the ride in question, and he stared longingly at it. He would be lying if he said that he did not want to leave Sam waiting so he could stay on the ride. “It was about to drop when you called.”

Sam chuckled, “You left Dean in the middle of the ride?” When Castiel nodded, Sam started laughing so hard he had to hold his sides. “Dean – on the ride – and you – people are gonna freak!” he cackled. “Good one, Cas.” He sighed, but started laughing again. Castiel did not find it as funny as Sam did.

Castiel inhaled deeply. “Is there any other reason you called me other than to tell me you found Johanna?” Castiel exhaled. “Have you found Logan as well?”

“Hey, I said if you’re not busy,” Sam interjected. He wiped the smile off his face and then scratched his chin. “And no, I have not found Logan yet. I don’t even know where to start, to be honest; I don’t even know what he looks like.”

Castiel saw something out of the corner of his eyes, far over to his right. He took a few steps, pushing past Sam, to get a better look. It was only a second, but he thought he saw a stream of black smoke circling its unseen prey like a vulture before it dove. Buildings and rides blocked its descent, and the location at which it swirled overhead was unknown. Castiel did not know if it was a trick of the eyes or if it was actually demons; whether or not he saw a demon, he knew there was one somewhere in this park of human amusement. The gnawing pinch in his gut was enough evidence for now.

He grabbed a fistful of Sam’s jacket, twisting it in his grip, and ignored his protest of, “Hey, whoa, what the hell – ?” Castiel only gave him a sidelong glance before teleporting to what Castiel guessed was the location over which the demon hovered. When they landed, Sam had to take a second to gather himself. He spun around, pupils dilated in fear, reaching for the holy water in his pocket. Castiel scrutinized him, sensing the fear and panic that coursed through his body. He understood it. He felt a white hot bubble burst in his chest, and heavenly fire snaked through his limbs. His wings spread out wide, flapping and twitching with anticipation. This was his fight-or-flight response, and he needed to do _something._

There was no one in his way, here; wherever the demons had gone, if they were here, this empty place would do well. Lockers lined the walls parallel to each other, with articles of clothing spread throughout the room, lying on benches, hanging off open locker doors. Voices echoed through the halls, but none were in this room. Castiel paced, knocking aside clothes and various other items with telekinesis, forcing open locker doors, forcing the door to open so hard it was pulled from its hinges. Sam shouted for Castiel, but he ignored it. He felt it, the wardings. He felt the push they gave, trying to force him away. Even if the demons were no longer here, this place was significant, and they did not want anything to be disrupted.

_“Castiel!”_ Sam shouted. He grabbed Castiel’s shoulder, held him in place, and spun him around to face him. Castiel had to resist grabbing Sam’s wrist and breaking it. It was instinctual. “Castiel, please, tell me what’s going on, damn it! What are you trying to find?”

“Wardings,” Castiel growled. He pulled his wings in and rolled his shoulders. “There’s something here that the demons do not want me to find.”

_Cas! Where the hell are you?_ Dean prayed. Even telepathically Deans’ voice was a growl. _I’m at the fucking game corner and I can’t find you or Sam. Please tell me you guys are all right._

Castiel’s shoulders relaxed, and he exhaled deeply through his nose. The fire still burned within him.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

Castiel snapped out of it and looked at Sam. “Dean. He’s calling for me.” Castiel looked down.

“Good. Let us help, Cas, okay?” Sam suggested, tightening the grip on Castiel’s shoulder. He put the other hand against his chest, trying to catch Castiel’s eyes. “If they’re wardings against you, I’ll take care of them. You go get Dean. If we’re close to finding something, we’ll need all of three of us.”

“Too bad there are only two of you,” a voice said behind them, and when they turned around, an older man with black eyes smirked at them.

He did it without even thinking: Castiel shot forward so quickly that the demon had no time to run, and he burned it out of the human with white hot light. The human that the demon possessed, Castiel assumed, was already dead, as evidenced by the crimson blotch on his side.

“Uh,” Sam said. Castiel turned, and the reflection of the light pouring from him began to dim. Sam stopped squinting. “Well, that sheds some light” – he chuckled, but Cas did not get the joke – “on the subject.” He cleared his throat and looked down at the body. “Um. I’ll take care of the poor bastard. You get Dean, okay?”

Castiel nodded, and a second later he was standing at the same spot he was before he sensed the demons. His eyes roamed the crowd, combing for the familiar tensed posture that belongs to Dean. The light brown hair, the fierce determination in his eyes. The way he stood bow-legged with bendy legs. It was not hard for Castiel to find Dean in the crowd. He paced back and forth, searching for either Castiel or Sam, and Castiel was not too far. He would notice the angel eventually, but Castiel did not want to waste time. He marched over to Dean, grabbed his shoulder from behind, and resisted the urge to say, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean reactively brought his fist up to punch his assailant and stopped himself when he noticed who it was. “Cas?” he asked. “Where were you, man?”

Castiel answered with a gentle touch, a hand cupping the crook where his neck met his shoulder. Dean gulped when Castiel’s thumb unconsciously stroked his jaw, and a second later he was standing in the locker room. Castiel pulled his hand away and clenched his fists.

“I thought I saw a demon somewhere in this general area, and unfortunately my hunch was right,” Castiel answered. He pointed to the dead body, tucked away in a corner with a few various clothing items covering him, particularly the blood stain. _That’s “taking care of it?”_ he asked himself.

He eyed Dean briefly, measuring his response, and was satisfied when Dean simply nodded. Castiel walked towards the hall and out the door. “I also found evidence of wardings. Something is here that the demons do not want found. Sam is now searching for those wardings.”

Dean sniffed. “Next time bring me along, okay, Cas? Don’t just leave me like that.”  
“Understood,” Castiel answered off-handedly. He was preoccupied, trying to find both Sam and any sign of wardings. “Let’s focus on the task at hand.”

Dean simply nodded, and he pulled his favorite pistol out from his back pocket. Dean pushed past Castiel and took the lead, and Castiel let him. With silent and sure footing, Dean crept forward, his natural hunting instinct kicking in. Castiel’s eyes shifted from the wide hallway and their surroundings to Dean and his careful, calculated steps. He came to a sudden halt, and Castiel almost bumped into him. Parallel to each other were two doors, one giving the rooms their source of light as it led to the outside world, the other leading to a room from which voices spilled and echoed. Dean turned an ear to the door to his right, the one from where the voices came, and put a hand out to Castiel. It landed firmly on his chest, and Castiel flattened himself against the wall, crushing his wings between his back and the wall.

“— a weird, nasty smell, like rotten eggs, ya know?” said a voice. “Someone probably left something in their locker and didn’t bother to take it out.”

“Which is why I’m going around and checking them, along with any other maintenance issues around here,” Sam said, and Dean let out a sharp exhale. Relieved. “Sorry to scare you, Logan.”

At the sound of the name, Castiel grabbed Dean’s hand and removed it from his chest. He marched inside the room, but something pushed him back, and he crashed through the cracked door leading outside. He landed with a groan of pain, his flesh tingling with a slight burn.

“Cas!” Dean called, and he hovered over the angel. Castiel only saw the outline of Dean’s silhouette, his face casted in deep shadows. The angel was slightly blinded by the white sunlight.

“Whoa, man, you okay?” Logan asked. Castiel propped himself up on his elbows. “What happened?”

“Ward –” Castiel began to answer, but Dean cut him off with, “This guys’s a real klutz, ya know? I swear, he tripped over thin air and got himself caught on the door.” Dean chuckled and mimicked the sound the door made when Castiel crashed through it. “He’s okay” – Dean looked down at Castiel – “right?”

Castiel, getting the hint, nodded.

“Well, as long as you’re okay,” Logan said. He reached out a hand to help Castiel to his feet, and Castiel obliged. The water bottles that were tucked inside Castiel’s pockets fell out and spilled their contents on the ground and around Castiel’s feet. 

“Take care of yourself, man,” Logan said, and he stepped back to avoid the water. “I gotta head over to my shift at the game corner.”

“We’ll take care of that rotten egg smell,” Sam told Logan, and shook his hand. “These guys are with me.”

Logan grinned and nodded, and then he left. When he turned a corner and was out of earshot, Castiel asked Sam, “So you found more evidence of demons?”

“Sure _smelled_ like I found something,” Sam answered. “Logan came in when I was trying to break into his locker. Had to make something up, like maintenance. That’s when he mentioned the sulfur smell. He was also complaining about vandalism.” Sam waved them over, but when they walked in Sam stopped Castiel in front of the door to the locker room. Sam walked through and pointed up, and when Dean walked in he rolled his eyes. “Angel ward,” Sam continued. “They definitely don’t want you in here. Logan comes in here because his locker’s in here, as is Johanna’s.”

“I bet the demons will try to snatch ‘em when they’re done with their shifts at the end of the day,” Dean mused. “We need to know when Logan’s and Johanna’s shifts end.”

“They both end at ten tonight, when the park closes,” Sam answered. “When I was digging up stuff on Johanna I found that, and I asked Logan so I could make sure his locker was ‘clean’ by then. Speaking of which.” Sam reached inside his jacket to pull out the demon-killing knife and then stood on his tip-toes to scratch out a part of the angel warding. The tension released from Castiel’s shoulders.

“Awesome,” Dean replied. “I think now we should just keep an eye on the two of them while a couple stay here to make some devils traps and shit. They won’t know we’re coming ‘cause we ganked the only one who knew we were here. Hopefully.” He rolled his shoulders. “Cas, why don’t you go watch them? Sam and I will stay behind. You’ll move quicker than Sam or me if the need be.”

“I suppose that is true,” Cas replied. “You two are rather slow.”

Dean flipped Castiel off, but it did not faze him, which made Sam laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Vultures](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FaM7T0ECbj8) \- pg.lost
> 
> I would suggest listening to it when you get to the part that's in the summary. I'll put a (*) where it is, too, to remind you. :)


	8. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He coughed. The smell of rotten eggs was polluting his lungs and making his eyes water. He closed the locker and turned a heel, but something caught his eye and he spun on his heel. He faltered, but he bent down on his hands and knees so it did not faze him. At the corner of the wall beside the locker he just inspected was a groove, barely noticeable. He could have easily missed it before had he not been looking for it. He ran his fingers along the groove, feeling more of it than was seen. He could cut into it to see what was inside.

Sam and Dean were interrupted in their trap-making only a few times by employees and employers, but thanks to their fake badges and quick-on-the-draw lies, they were able to set up traps fairly quickly. Sam sat on a bench in the room that use to have the angel warding, filling bullets with rock salt with a furrowed brow and thoughts that were miles away, back at the house where they found the attempted angel trapping. The tortured bodies of the demons’ victims, their blood strewn and collected in bowls. Herbs that smelled like spiced chai and spoiled milk and the bones of both humans and animals. The demons acting like demons from the fricken _Exorcist._ He wiped grains of salt from his sticky palms before slipping back into the routine of _salt, bullet, next one._ That is what really put Sam off, he realized: it was not so much that the demons were trying to trap and cage archangels, it was their odd behavior.

Dean lay on his back on a bench on the other side of the room. His right arm was flung across his eyes and the other hung loosely; his left knee was bent on the bench while the other draped over the side of the bench. _Salt, bullet, next one._ Dean also hummed to himself, some rock song Sam couldn’t recognize off the top of his head. Sam peered at him through strands of hair that had fallen in his face, and he blew them out of the way, only to have them fall back in place. He sighed, slicked them back, and continued putting salt in the bullets. _Salt, bullet, next one._ Was Dean even curious about how the demons were acting? How this whole thing seemed off? He seemed indifferent to the whole thing, but then again, that was Dean – acting like he didn’t give two shits when he actually did.

_If he knew what was going to happen, he would give more than just two shits,_ Sam thought, falling into memories of his exploration of the bunker months ago. The demon named Sheila. The prediction. The deal. _Hell, I don’t even know for sure what’s going to happen, only the end result. That’s a mystery I still need solved._

“Maybe we should check the lockers again, Dean,” Sam suggested. _Salt, bullet, next one._ “I can’t help feeling like maybe we missed something.”

“Sammy,” Dean exhaled, and he moved his arm down to his chest. He rolled his head to face Sam. “We checked, like, three times since we found this place. There’s nothing. The demons probably just tried put an angel ward to make sure when Logan or Johanna came in here they’d kill ‘em and keep ‘em in here until the right time, with no chance of an angel to come in and save ‘em. Not until the right moment.” He adjusted his shoulders and went back to his original position. “Just keep rockin’ the salt.”

“But what about those other demons we saw, huh?” Sam pressed. _Salt, bullet, next one._ “They weren’t acting like normal demons. What was up with that?”

“Beats me,” Dean answered. “Cas wouldn’t really answer when I asked last night, so I dropped it. He didn’t seem too pleased about it, though.”

“Could they be some kind of demon we’ve never really faced before? Like some hell spawn that crawled out for the first time in hundreds of years?” Dean uncovered his face and raised an eyebrow at Sam. “I did a little digging. Some Christian/ Catholic biblical lore, since Cas said something about the disciples. See if any of it is connected. In the books of Mark and Luke, these people were possessed by demons that called themselves the _Legion._ ” 

_“They are merciless; they are the harbingers of chaos and bloodshed.”_ His brain dug through memories of the note found on the body he discovered when he explored the bunker, where he found Sheila. He did not know then, but he had met his first Legion demon, and she, unbeknownst to Sam, told him what a Legion demon was like: _“My race of demon is known for chaos, self-mutilation . . . and overall instability.”_

Sam ignored his racing thoughts and continued: “These were the demons that made the people they were possessing cut themselves up and try to kill themselves through either burning alive, drowning, or bleeding out. They would make them break their own bones.”

“We’ve seen demons stab themselves so that when they got out of the bodies they’d be dead,” Dean countered, waving a dismissive hand. “They’ve done it in front of us plenty of times, trying to make our efforts for saving people nothin’.” 

“The thing is, though, these demons were suicidal, and a little nuts,” Sam argued. “They’d make themselves foam at the mouth and weird shit like that.”

“And you think that the demons we saw at the house last night were the same as the one mentioned in the Bible? The Legion?”

Sam shrugged. “It’s a guess. I mean” – Sam rested his elbows against his knees – “what else could explain these demons acting all crazy? Demons don’t act like that; we’ve fought demons long enough to know exactly how they act.”

“Unfortunately,” Dean huffed. He groaned as he sat up, and he rubbed at his eye with his fist. “Okay, Sammy, I’ll bite. So you still think these _Legion_ demons are hiding something in here. I’ll keep looking.”

“They’re hiding _something,_ I know that.” He stood up and brushed the salt off his pants. “I’ll help you look, and we might as well check the demon traps while we’re at it. Don’t want any leaky pipes messing ‘em up.”

“My face hurts just thinking about the last time that happened,” Dean muttered, absently rubbing his jaw. Alistair, as both Sam and Dean fondly remember, was able to break out of his ultra-demon trap with just a few drops from a leaky pipe. _Dean got the shit beat out of him,_ Sam recollected, and flashing images of Dean’s bloody and bruised face attacked his mind.

Sam went into the room he came into when he and Cas arrived the first time. It still looked like it had taken a beating from Castiel; locker doors hung open, miscellaneous items were strewn across the floor, and the door was still unhinged. He walked around the room slowly, peeking into already open lockers and slowly opening ones that were still closed. There had to be something they missed – a warding, a sygil, contents that suggested a spell. One of the lockers on the bottom row that he opened smelled like rotten eggs, and when he shined a light inside it he found tell-tale signs of sulfur, but it did not help much. He already knew demons were here. What he needed was some new evidence, anything at all to help him find something rather than waiting around for the demons to come to them.

He coughed. The smell of rotten eggs was polluting his lungs and making his eyes water. He closed the locker and turned a heel, but something caught his eye and he spun on his heel. He faltered, but he bent down on his hands and knees so it did not faze him. At the corner of the wall beside the locker he just inspected was a groove, barely noticeable. He could have easily missed it before had he not been looking for it. He ran his fingers along the groove, feeling more of it than was seen. He could cut into it to see what was inside.

“Dean!” he called, and he heard the heavy footfalls of his approaching brother. “Give me something to get into this.”

“Get into what?” Dean asked from behind. “Sammy, this ain’t a pretty view.”

Sam turned around and gave his brother a disapproving look, and he rolled his eyes. “Shut up and help me out here. Give me a knife or something.”

“Demanding,” Dean grunted. He pulled the demon-killing knife from his boot and handed it to Sam, hilt first.

While Sam scraped and poked the groove in the wall, Dean sat beside him on the slender bench. He propped an elbow on his knee closest to Sam and rested his chin in his palm. He sniffed, and sneezed, and commented on the smell of rotten eggs. Sam gave his brother a look, one that said, “Do you really need to be making this much noise?” before going back to inspecting the wall. The section of wall gave way. He coughed at the drywall bursting in clouds of dust. He cut out a perfect vertically standing rectangle, perhaps no bigger than his forearm and barely wider than his hand. He placed the knife beside him, and Dean grabbed it as Sam pulled the section of wall from its place. On the inside of the piece was an Enochian symbol, and Sam exchanged a look with Dean.

“At least we know it’s important, whatever it is,” Dean commented, tucking the knife in his boot.

“Whatever it is,” Sam echoed, and he looked inside the hole. Something tall was wrapped in a dirty cloth. A dank smell leaked from the hole. Sam hesitantly reached for the object, and found that it had a handle underneath the cloth. It sloshed when he pulled it from its hole. He raised an eyebrow and leaned back on his heels. His knees started to ache from supporting his weight on cold cement floor. He slowly unwrapped the object from the cloth, and what was revealed was a familiar object. An old, decaying, gray vase sat in his hands, indistinct carvings lining its lid and the rim from which its contents spill. 

Dean pointed at it and asked, “Isn’t that – ?”

“Holy oil,” Sam finished, and he asked for the knife again. He exchanged the holy oil for the knife. He bent down on his hands and knees again and tapped on the wall beside him with his knuckle to see if anything else was hidden. He found another indentation in the wall parallel to Dean, low to the ground like the first one. Sam cut into it easily, knowing what he would find. Instead, he found an empty cloth.

Dean had tipped the contents out of the vase onto his fingers, and it ran clean like water. A sour smell had begun to waft through the air, but it was not rotten egg smell. When Dean brought his fingers to his nose, he reeled and coughed. 

“It’s a decoy, Sammy,” Dean coughed. “This is vinegar.”

Sam looked into the hole in the wall again. “Then where’s the real holy oil? You don’t think the demons already – ?”

His head snapped to look at Dean, and their eyes met at the same time. The realization hit both of them, and Sam could see the panic bleeding into Dean’s eyes; the way his lip curled and fists clenched made Sam weary. But he felt it, too. 

“Cas!” they yelled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Dean's humming is Cherry Pie by Warrant. It's not a must to listen to for the chapter, but feel free to listen to it! :P


	9. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cas, if you can hear me, God damn it, get out of there!_ Dean shouted in his head. Castiel’s wings shift, and his heart punched his ribs. _They got holy oil, Cas, and – !_

Castiel enjoyed watching the humans. They were a curious bunch, Johanna and Logan. Johanna, at her game stand, would glance at Logan from the corner of her eye with a grin. Logan would slowly return her gaze, and the two would begin laughing uncontrollably. Another human who wished to play the games would interrupt their banter, but only briefly: while Johanna tended to the child playing the game at her stand, Logan would lean over his counter and make a face at Johanna. She did not notice at first, but as soon as she did, she smiled and had to cover her mouth to keep the laughter from spilling out. She did the same to him when a parent and a child came to his game stand, and as they were getting ready to leave, they physically teased each other by poking at the other and playfully pushing. Castiel smiled with them. 

A fond memory blossomed in his mind, and his smile became so wide that he felt warmth spread to his cheeks and ears. He looked down at his shoes to try to conceal his wide grin. There was a time where Dean was doing almost the exact same thing to the angel that Johanna and Logan were doing to the other. It felt so long ago now; it had been in the early days of the apocalypse, when Castiel had begun passing the time in the impala and with the Winchester brothers more so than before the apocalypse. 

Castiel, at the time during the memory, was on a scouting mission, and he wanted to bring the new information that came to light to Dean and Sam. He called the brothers, and when Sam answered, he told Castiel their location on a highway in Montana. Upon his arrival in the backseat of the car named “Baby,” he found that Dean was sound asleep and Sam was driving, which was a rare site indeed. As soon as Castiel uttered a greeting, Dean woke so suddenly that he hit his head against the car window and let out a string of curses. He looked behind him and met Castiel’s eyes, and said a groggy and grumpy greeting. He sat up and looked behind at Castiel again, only this time his expression was more disgusted than groggy. He turned around. He looked at Castiel again, and his expression was exaggerated. He repeated this a few more times, his expression growing less serious and more exaggerated and comical with every turn. Castiel, at the time, did not know what to make of Dean’s behavior, and so he did not join in with Dean’s “gut-busting” laughter. Now, as he sat on a bench within seeing-distance of Johanna and Logan, he could not help but chuckle at the memory.

(*)The laughter turned to ashes in his mouth when he caught a line of black smoke slowly trickling through the bushes to the far right; it was snaking and weaving through branches, but because it is such a silent being, the few humans that walked by paid it no mind. Castiel looked around and saw that he was the only one who noticed it. His feathers puffed out and his wings spread so wide that he felt like they were going to pop off. The heat of anger leaked from his chest to the rest of his body. The tingling in the tips of his fingers signaled the build-up of angelic magic. He looked around again: the only humans around were the two he had been tasked with guarding. With a flap of his wings, he sauntered forward. He did so slowly, sensing that the black smoke had locked onto him. They measured each other as he took calculated steps towards it. The smoke rolled, pulsating in and out of the branches of the hedge it had occupied, trying to be threatening. It was like a peacock, fanning out its feathers and making them quiver to give the allusion of a threat; its pride and empty threats were all Castiel saw, not the false colors it used to make itself more intimidating than it really was. All it had was black. He would strip the demon of its pride when he silenced it.

When he reached the end of the pathway on which he stalked, with a pathway leading to his left and the other to his right, the demon recoiled. It vanished into the bush. Castiel had a moment of confusion before the demon smoke tornadoed its way above the hedge. It sparked and thrashed. Castiel had never seen this reaction before, and he only had a moment to question it before a voice bubbled in his mind. 

_Cas, if you can hear me, God damn it, get out of there!_ Dean shouted in his head. Castiel’s wings shift, and his heart punched his ribs. _They got holy oil, Cas, and – !_

Dean’s voice tuned out when two screams erupted from a distance. Castiel started to understand what was happening. His realization, however, was too late. He whipped around to find a possessed Logan and Johanna standing behind him. Logan was all smiles, but Johanna was wide-eyed and wrapping her arms around her trembling body, mumbling to herself all the while. A weight crushed Castiel where he stood; his shoulders ached and his legs wanted to give out beneath him. He failed in protecting these humans; he was _right there_ and he still managed to fail them. The demonic face beneath the still rosy-cheeked Johanna turned to Logan and generated a smile so disgusting Castiel wanted nothing more than to erase it from this world and right his wrong.

Castiel stretched a hand out, his angelic magic boiling the blood in his veins, and he marched forward with an intent to cast out the demons. Before anything could happen, the demon in Logan said, “Forget it, Castiel.” Castiel noticed the lighter in the human’s hand too late, and he looked at his feet before Logan tossed the lit lighter down. A ring of holy fire surrounded him. His wings tightened against his shoulders, the feathers on edge and puffed up in fear. He stepped right into the trap.

_We’re – locker room, so – yourself – come back – to – please, Cas!_ Dean’s voice reverberated in his ears, but it kept cutting out as the holy fire started to weaken his powers. He soon could not decipher what Dean was saying anymore.

The demon inside Johanna started to laugh uncontrollably, snorting and holding its sides, dropping to the floor to roll around. The demon in Logan rolled his eyes, and he knelt down to grab Johanna’s arm and drag her back up. Johanna’s demon continued laughing, staring at her arm where Logan grabbed her, and suddenly decided to crack it and bend it in a way a human’s arm is not meant to bend. It started to laugh more and bent the other arm the same way before putting them back in place.

“Quit it – _quit it!_ ” Logan scolded the whole time, and he smacked Johanna across the face. He sighed when Johanna moaned and rubbed the sore spot, saying, “No,” over and over again. Logan did not seem to care, and he ordered her to, “Stop crying and get what we need. Hurry.”

Johanna moaned loader in a pained cry before she vanished, and it was then that Castiel realized exactly who that she-demon was. He clenched and unclenched his shaking fists, trying to wrap his head around the possibility of it. He had seen her, a shining human soul, just yesterday when she was with Dean, and when she was possessed – how could they have tortured her and mangled her so much that she was already a demon? Even Lilith’s soul did not demonize that quickly. Lucifer must have been kinder than the demons who tortured this human’s soul, _Hazel’s_ soul, so much that she became a demon almost overnight. That meant the demons, like the one inside Logan, were almost ready for whatever they had planned. 

Logan sighed again, and he looked at Castiel from beneath his lashes. “You know exactly who, and _what_ , that she-demon is, Castiel, and I bet this pretty boy meatsuit that you’re scared of her.”

Castiel answered with only silence. Sweat was beading at his temples and sliding down his neck. His stomach churned. He willed himself not show that he was, in fact, truly terrified.

“Well, she’s annoying as shit, so don’t sweat it, not yet,” Logan crooned, and Johanna – or, rather, Hazel – reappeared beside him, giggling once more. In her arms was a bowl filled with, as far as Castiel can see, a bloody heart of a virgin, bones of infant males and lambs, and the aroma of familiar spices. He had to keep his wings from shooting out in surprise when the scents of what was contained in the bowl reached his brain. Castiel’s heart raced so fast he was afraid it would give out, and his limbs began to ache with the buildup of magic that could not escape.

“We had to test out the new cages somehow,” Logan said in response to Castiel’s revelation. “Better start with the seraphs before we move on to trapping archangels.” He turned to Hazel, and she began breaking Johanna’s arms again, as well as the wrists. How she can do that to herself, to Johanna, and find it amusing made Castiel sick. “Gather the others and go introduce yourselves to the Winchesters.”

Hazel the demon stopped breaking her wrists, and her giggles faltered as she trembled and whispered to herself. The weight on Castiel’s shoulders became so heavy that he would have liked nothing better than to collapse; all he could do, however, was watch as Johanna’s body vanished. Logan, with a smile, began the ceremony to trap Castiel like a firefly in a jar and crush him like an ant under a boot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a (*) where I suggest starting the music to set the atmosphere. Totally up to you. If any of you _do_ listen to the music, would you let me know in the comments? And if any of you have anything -- feedback, feelings, what you think will happen next, etc. -- go ahead and comment! I'd love to hear from you! Have a lovely morning, afternoon, evening, night, or whatever, you lovelies!  <3
> 
> [Until It Breaks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRCt_jZOFZQ) \- Linkin Park


	10. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did you do to him?” Dean barked. He wanted so badly to slam his fist against the ground in frustration, but he couldn’t move a limb. _“What did you do to him?”_
> 
> “They did it,” Sam breathed. 
> 
> “Ah, ah, ah,” the voice _tsked._ “Don’t spoil the surprise for Dean over there. He’ll want to see Castiel for himself.”

There was a fire spreading through Dean’s veins, boiling his blood and burning a hole through his heart. The bloodlust was becoming a thirst that was unquenchable. He had been internally pleading for Castiel to return to him, to stay where it’s safe, but the angel neither answered nor returned. Dean feared he was too late in his warning, and he felt it in his bones that Castiel was trapped. 

He and Sam left the locker room as soon as they had geared up. Dean had the demon knife tucked in his boot, his favorite pistol in his hand, and enough ammo to allow for a few extra kill shots if he so pleased. If Johanna and Logan – if they, too, were not compromised – were to come to the locker room while Dean and Sam were not here, they would be protected by the many demon traps the brothers set up. Every footstep out the locker room felt heavy; he felt like he was dragging a metaphorical ball-and-chain, one that chained him to his panic and desperation. The anger gave him energy enough, but the not knowing – that was the worst. Not knowing where Castiel was. Not knowing if the demons had him trapped or if they were torturing him. Not knowing if Dean wasn’t being heard because the line had been cut by the death of Castiel. It brought back memories of Purgatory, when Dean spent half of his time killing monsters and the other half frantically searching for his angel.

“Should we check the game corner first?” Sam suggested, and Dean nodded in answer. That was where they sent Castiel last. He may not be right by the game corner, but he could be in the general vicinity. He had to be there. Castiel would not go too far from Johanna and Logan.

They turned a corner and bumped into three figures who appeared out of thin air. Dean did not get scared, he only reacted: he aimed and fired at whatever body was in front of him, but he only grazed whoever it was, and the gun flew out of his hand as he was shoved backward by an unknown force. He landed on his back, and a crushing pressure pressed on his lungs, forcing the air out in a _whoosh._ He gasped for air and struggled to reach his demon knife. He heard Sam grunting and yelping out in small spurts of pain, recovering quickly. When Dean sat up, coughing up a lung, he had the demon knife in hand, ready to stab whatever came after him.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, pointing behind his brother before he got flung forward onto his hands and knees.

Dean blindly stabbed behind him, and whatever it was shrieked a high-pitched cry. The few stragglers at the amusement park, a few teenagers and some young adults, started screaming and panicking. When Dean turned around he found Johanna, the human he was supposed to be protecting, thrashing in pain and screaming her head off, hands trembling as she groped for the demon knife sunk deep into her thigh. She kicked Dean in the face and then again in the shoulder as she writhed, and Dean fell back on his hip. He took the opportunity to scramble up and help Sam while the newly demon-possessed Johanna was occupied. He could not kill it –that, of course, would kill Johanna, and he was supposed to be protecting her. 

_You’re doing a shit job, Dean,_ he scolded himself.

He shouted for Sammy. He was in hand-to-hand combat with another demon. They tiptoed around each other in some deadly dance. The whip of the angel blade Castiel gave Sam was being heard too often; Sam was having a hard time stabbing the thing. This meatsuit was unknown, some man dressed in the garb of the amusement park employees. It was laughing as it toyed with Sammy. It could have used its telekinesis, but it was choosing not to. Dean tackled it to the ground, landing on the dude’s back. He struggled to pin it down and leave an opening for Sam to hit home. He and Dean came to a halt when the demon twisted its head in a full one-eighty to look Dean, and its and Dean’s noses brushed. The sound the neck made as it broke was squishy, popping, crackling – Dean wanted to gag. He had to try hard not to crawl off the thing and leave it open again, though it could easily push him off with strength alone, not to mention its telekinetic powers.

_“We are Legion,”_ it whispered to Dean, and the breath was hot against his lips. He cringed. _“For we are many. Many, many, many, many –”_ it kept repeating the word over and over again, and Dean moved when Sam told him to so he could drive his angel blade deep into the poor bastard’s spinal cord. It cried out in a gurgling scream as its insides burned with a sizzling yellow light from the inside out before it collapsed.

There was hardly silence thereafter; screams from far too many people echoed in Dean’s ears, and the haunting chant of, _“Many, many, many!”_ was now coming out of Johanna’s mouth as she threw the knife on the ground. She started to giggle. When Dean looked behind her he saw why. The panicking bystanders were all screaming as the demon smoke forced their way down their gullets. Once the demons were inside the bodies, they all vanished and appeared a millisecond later beside Johanna. They were all doing different things that made Dean start to back away as though he were facing a pack of rabid dogs. Instinct drove him to shove his hand out to Sammy’s chest to put his little brother behind him. The demons were all chanting, but some of them moaned and dropped to the floor to cradle their knees against their chests, to put their hands to their ears, or drop to their knees because they had bent them in ways no human’s knees ever should bend. Johanna, or rather the demon inside her, was laughing, and suddenly the laugh was in Dean’s ears, busting his eardrums. He reeled, and then she shoved him away with her freaky demon powers. He landed on his back once again. He had to fight the pain that jolted down his spine.

“I remember you,” she purred in his ears. She was now straddling his hips. She stretched her arm out to keep Sam down with unseen powers. Dean tried to look at Sam and not straight into Johanna’s round black eyes. “I _remember_ you”— she rested her jaw against his and spoke breathily against it – “from last night, Dean. What kind of friends do you have, Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean, you axe murderer, Dean.”

A memory from yesterday, which now felt like eons ago, bubbled in Dean’s mind, one of a curvaceous woman who was scared off by Castiel and the blade in his hand. A woman whose body Castiel said was possessed.

_No, that’s impossible,_ he thought.

A chorus of, “Bring them to him, bring them to him, they will see, they will see!” surrounded Dean and Sam, and bodies started to pile around them. Their hands groped him and Sam, taking any weapons they could find and throwing them aside. Dean tried to keep eye contact with Sammy, but he had to close his eyes when hands and fingers started stroking his face. The crackling of broken bones mixed with pained moaning filled his ears before he felt the nauseating rush of being teleported.

When they landed, he was standing upright, but not for long; his center of balance was off and he fell to his hands and knees beside Sammy, who had managed to stay standing. When Dean tried to stand up – his head hanging low and looking at the concrete – he couldn’t move. The only thing he could hear was whispering and a loud chanting. A fire crackled like fireworks nearby, but he could not see it. His head could not move; he had to rely on his hearing because his eyes were downcast.

“Cas? What did they – ?” Sam asked. He sounded defeated. Dean’s heart sank.

“You know what we did,” a familiar voice rumbled. It was the same voice that was chanting, but Dean knew it from somewhere else, too, he just couldn’t place it.

“What did you do to him?” Dean barked. He wanted so badly to slam his fist against the ground in frustration, but he couldn’t move a limb. _“What did you do to him?”_

“They did it,” Sam breathed. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” the voice _tsked._ “Don’t spoil the surprise for Dean over there. He’ll want to see Castiel for himself.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean murmured, fingers curling into fists against the warm concrete. “I _swear_ I’ll –”

“You’ll what?” the voice asked. 

Something pressed against Dean’s knuckles in his left hand, crushing them between what Dean saw as a red converse sneaker and the concrete. A sharp, pulsating pain shot through his hand. Dean shouted through clenched teeth, trying so hard to fight the tears welling up in his eyes. He could feel his knuckles rolling against the bones in his hand. The popping of his knuckles was as uncomfortable as the crackling of his breaking bones.

While Dean snarled in pain, Sam desperately shouted, “Leave him _alone!_ ” and he fought against what Dean assumed was the invisible wall that is demon telekinesis. He could hear his groans of frustration.

“You can’t do anything right now,” the voice said, “and neither can you, Dean.” It was now beside his ear. “All you can do is sit back and watch.”  
Dean could only growl in reply as the pain in his hand was rendering him speechless. He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a tear roll down his nose. _Dammit, Dean,_ he scolded.

Slowly Dean’s torso started to lift up, his knees still on the ground but his hands starting to float up with him. His arms were pinned to his sides, and his left hand throbbed in pain. He didn’t think he could move it anyway. He kept his eyes closed until he felt his back straighten ever so slowly. He flinched when small hands roughly snaked around his sides, rubbing against his stomach, a giggle at his ears before teeth scraped against his earlobe.

A _whack_ against skin made him flinch, but it was not he who had been slapped. A chorus of, “No,” whimpered behind him; from the corner of his eye he saw the faint hint of Johanna curled up and whimpering her protests. He felt something looming over him and his eyes flickered to the figure. Logan towered above him. He blinked. _Click._ Instead of brown eyes, Dean saw black. Logan looked pretty pleased with himself when his eyes remained black instead of flickering back to brown.

“Is that supposed to be impressive?” Dean asked, trying to find Cas. A soft glow illuminated behind Logan, and he saw a hint of a wide bowl somewhere behind his legs, but he couldn’t see the angel. He was trying hard to fight the pain in his hand and trying even harder not to hyperventilate.

Logan’s eyes flickered back to brown with a soft click. “You should be, seeing as I am just about done locking your black winged bird in its cage over there.”

Dean stopped breathing when Logan stepped aside to reveal Castiel.

“Cas,” Dean called, but his voice broke, and the pain in his knuckles seemed like nothing as the fire Dean felt earlier began to burn him from the inside out in a rage. He was a dead man tied down to burn at the stake. “Cas!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Turn Into Earth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFBaukiTFfE) \- The Yardbirds
> 
> [The Last Song Playing at the End of the Film of my Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59xJkmK8TPs)– The Last Dinosaur
> 
> Play in progression of each other, one right after the other, from beginning to end. :)


	11. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel heard Dean’s voice again, a strangled cry of, _“Castiel answer me, dammit! Please! I’ll get you out of this, Cas, I promise! I will not lose you!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank you all for reading this. My computer recently went haywire and I thought I lost the rest of the chapters, but I was smart and saved them on google drive (though I had forgotten that I did, haha). Most of the sequel, however, is still lost, and it is unclear if the files can be found. Hopefully when I get my computer looked at they can save the files. :) Anyway, enough chit-chat: thanks again for reading, lovelies!

With the final rough syllable uttered in Enochian, the ice began to eat Castiel alive. It mushroomed in the center of his chest and froze his veins, arteries, his every ligament, until it consumed his entirety. He watched as the holy fire that surrounded him was snuffed out by the icy wind that rolled off him, and he collapsed onto his back. The base of his skull rammed against the concrete in a symphony of clinks, a symphony that was not unlike the mug of coffee Sam spilled yesterday. His wings crunched like snow beneath his shoes. It was as if Castiel had turned to ice himself, and his every limb shattered like an ice sculpture as he fell to the ground. 

_“Mi-ceh-ma, no-koo-ohl,”_ the demon possessing Logan commanded in Enochian. _“Do-ah-leh-eem ee dree-ehl pi-ee-ah-mah-oh!”_ The ice in Castiel’s veins was becoming so cold that it began to burn. “Behold, servants: sin is greater than righteousness!” Logan had said, and he finished with, “Now watch as I end this angel!” 

Castiel stared up at the night sky above him as the Legion cheered and screamed for his end. The cosmos stared back at him, a midnight blue that eyed him mercilessly, watching him turn to ice and doing nothing to save him. The ice continued to freeze his limbs, and they became so cold that he thought one touch would shatter him to fragments. He felt the agonizing cry build up in his lungs and tickle his throat, but it could not escape. It left his mouth in a puff of chilly air. As the cage took its form, it reduced him to silence and stillness. Castiel could, however, hear Logan’s maniacal laughter sing in his ears as he began to hover above the ground. The night sky moved closer to him, so close he began to be consumed by it as well. Swallowed by the cosmos, he was, and soon the laughter began to die down. Then he heard himself scream. It tore at his vocal chords. Rattled his bones. A grumble rippled through his body like that of a frozen over lake being stepped on in the wrong place. 

Castiel was surrounded by stars and the faces of the Legion demons, their true faces, as well as those of Lilith and Alistair and other greater demons. They whispered Enochian spells that caused him a pain similar to being burned away by an angel banishing spell. Their bodies – or, rather, the bodies of their vessels – began to surround him, frozen in walking and running positions. Only their mouths moved. In their hands were angel blades. Blood trickled from their wrists and onto their hands. He did not know what kept them frozen in place, and he did not dare question it. With a trap set and bloody angel blades in their hands, Castiel knew once the cage was locked, they would be after him.

The true face of the demon possessing Logan materialized before him, and the cosmos wavered to give the angel the view of the park he was really in. He could hear a voice in the back of his head, one that begged for him to, “Come back to me!” over and over, but it soon vanished. It sounded familiar; it sounded like Dean.

“You know, Castiel,” Logan whispered in Enochian. His lips brushed Castiel’s ears, and his fingers stroked his wings. The touch was too hot for his frozen wings, and Castiel tried to scream out again, but it wavered with the wavering cosmos. Glimpses of Alistair, Lilith, and many other demon’s faded in and out, as if his eyes were trying to adjust. “The ritual is not yet finished,” Logan continued. “We need one more thing, and then you will be trapped forever, your wings torn off like a butterfly’s, your grace burned out of you like an ant beneath a magnifying glass, and your entirety crushed like a fly beneath my hand. You will wish for death. But we need something, Castiel, and your human is going to bring it right to us, and then we’re going to do more than kill him – we shall slaughter him and make him one of us.”

Castiel heard Dean’s voice again, a strangled cry of, _“Castiel answer me, dammit! Please! I’ll get you out of this, Cas, I promise! I will not lose you!”_

_No,_ Castiel thought, and it was a single, sad, choked note. _He has to be lying._ A single tear escaped from his eye, but it felt hot, and another followed from his mouth, his nose, and he realized it was blood as the nasty tongues, forked and spiked alike, of the Legion demons began to lap at it beneath him and lick it off his face.

Castiel tried to close his eyes, but they were forced to stay open; he was forced to stare at the demons lapping up his blood from the corner of his eyes; he was forced to hear the sound of their slurping and at the demon inside Logan laughing and strangling Logan’s soul. Alistair, Lilith, and too many other demons and greater demons, though they were only hallucinations, chanted in Enochian, bringing forth a burning that became too intense and then not so at all as the cold crept back in. The ritual, he realized, once finished, would animate the greater demons, would animate Alistair and Lilith, and they would torture him and stab him and break him for the rest of eternity. What was worse than torture, Castiel thought in between moments of what felt like burning alive, was that Dean would be forced to live out the rest of eternity being Legion, as Logan promised – even if Logan was lying, he couldn’t bare the thought.

The cosmos faded in and out before him, rolling in like waves on the sand, perfectly synched with the intense burning and the unbearable cold.

_I’m sorry, Dean._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Still Alright](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AY8si2D8Cyk) \- pg.lost


	12. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hand over the damn feather,” Logan demanded, “or Johanna here will peel that tattoo off Sammy _really slowly,_ and she and her Legion friends will crawl inside him and make him beat it out of you in a way he knows will make you break.”

_First, the Angel of Thursday will be captured,_ echoed Sheila’s voice in Sam’s head. It was a distant memory. He had forgotten that Castiel was the Angel of Thursday. Today was Thursday. Was that supposed to be ironic? Maybe it was. Sam did not care. He did not care that he was forewarned about this months ago by that damn demon he found hidden in the bunker. Sam still had a hard time looking at Castiel.

The angel was suspended in air, back parallel to the ground, arms stretched out, and his chest exposed. His trench coat – _that damn trench coat_ – hung low and touched the ground, swaying softly with the evening breeze that blew whisps of hair in Sam’s face. Cas was wide-eyed, and his mouth was ajar in a silent scream. Trapped in his mind and in a cage made visible only by the soft, pure white glow surrounding the angel like a spotlight. It pulsed like a heartbeat. Castiel bled like a wounded heart. Crimson droplets from the angel’s eyes fell down his cheek, dripped from his nose, his ears, dribbled and bubbled at the corner of his lips and fell to the concrete. Sam could see the pain Castiel was in, but he could not hear the scream, and for that he was thankful. 

What Sam could hear, however, was Dean’s strangled cries for his angel and the viscous threats he threw at Logan. It all sounded desperate, and it did nothing for Dean except make him sound weak. When Dean started adding insults to his list of threats, Logan flicked his wrist lazily, and Dean’s voice caught in his throat in a sickening gargle. The wheezing and the strangled breaths coming from Dean’s mouth made Sam see red, and he struggled against the invisible chains the demon inside Johanna put him in. As soon as he began to struggle, more demons surrounded him. They wore random citizens and amusement park staff, which explains why there were so few bystanders and so many demons. “We are Legion, for we are many,” began to ring true for Sam.

The Legion demons began to whisper threats and promises to “break his fragile bones,” “skin him slowly,” and “drink his blood as he drank ours.” Sam felt a pang in his chest and an ache in his gut, one he had not felt in so long. Bloodlust became his lover once more; however, it was a different kind of bloodlust. He wanted nothing more than to rip these demons from their meatsuits and save his brother and the angel with his _bare hands_ , not with the psychic powers demon blood gave him. The bloodlust was fueled by hatred and made him thirsty for revenge; it was not the lust for power as it once was. That feeling did not change when Logan unclenched the fist he had formed as he twisted Dean’s insides. Dean gasped and coughed, splattering blood onto the concrete beneath him.

“See what happens when you’re an ass, Dean Winchester?” Logan asked. He crouched to get almost eye-level with Dean and grabbed Dean’s hair to yank his head back. Dean let out a hiss through clenched teeth, and his fingers curled into fists against his sides. If Sam wasn’t looking, he would have never noticed how Dean’s arms and legs trembled. It was hard to differ the shivers of anger and the trembles of pain.

“So,” Logan continued, “if you continue being an ass, the pain also continues. You will answer me, and you will give me what I want so I can trap and burn your angel. Got it?” Logan stood, and as he did so he slowly lifted his hand, palm up, fingers curled in like claws. Dean started to rise, too, blood dripping down his chin, chest heaving. He stood stiff and tried to slow his breathing, nostrils flaring as he inhaled and exhaled deeply through his nose. Sam saw how desperately Dean was trying to remain calm, but he knew his brother too well. Dean was breaking; he tried so hard to keep his composure, but still he broke.

Logan said, “’Atta boy, Dean,” in mock approval and patted Dean on his back where his shoulder blade was. The sinister look in Logan’s eyes hinted too late at what he was going to do. Dean’s cry of pain cut into Sam like a hot blade. Dean’s left shoulder was jutting out at an odd angle; it looked worse than a simple dislocated shoulder. The Legion demons giggled and moaned in Sam’s ear before surrounding Dean, pushing each other aside to touch and relocate Dean’s shoulder, laughing when he cried out in pain, and licking his neck as they broke it again. Dean was turning pale with the pain of having his shoulder broken over and over again. A light sheen of sweat on his brow glistened against the glow of Castiel’s cage. Sam thought his heart was going to explode because it was racing too hard and fast; he thought he would go blind and see nothing but red forever because he could not quench his thirst for revenge.

“That’s _enough,_ ” Logan shouted, and the Legion demons cowered and disappeared, only to reappear behind Sam. “Fucking vultures, you are.” He _tsked_ and folded his arms across his chest before grinning at Dean. “I think you’ll be more willing to cooperate now, don’t you agree, Dean?” Dean slumped against the invisible chains Logan had him in and moaned in pain. “Perfect,” Logan chuckled. “Now, tell me: where’s the feather?”

Sam’s curiosity piqued at the mention of the feather. He dug into his memory to try and find why it did. Sheila said nothing about a feather when she warned him about these current events. So he dug deeper. The symbolism behind feathers was one thing, but in this particular ritual. . . . _Dammit,_ he mentally cursed. There were too many other things that demanded his attention. What did the feather _mean?_

“What?” Dean asked, snapped out of his pain with genuine confusion. “What feather?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Logan warned. Sam felt a dull pain in his gut and noticed Logan’s hand slowly reaching out to him. “You know damn well what feather I need. You two and Castiel over there have been privy to what we’ve been doing since you met Hazel over there.” He gestured toward Johanna, and she appeared beside Dean to kiss his neck and nip at it. “Poor, pretty thing. The quicker you turn ‘em into a demon, the uglier they are when they turn.”

“Hazel . . . ? I didn’t think it could be – how did – ?” Dean was stuttering, trying to shy away from Johanna -- _that’s Hazel, a fucking_ demon _now_ , Sam thought – but too confused and caught off guard to successfully pull away. What Sam knew of demons was not lining up with what he just learned: demons are so because a soul in Hell became so twisted it forgot its humanity and became a being of hatred and evil. That took _eons_ in Hell years to occur. Lillith was the first soul to be turned by Lucifer into a demon, and that did not take one night. Perhaps that is why Legion demons were so distinct in their nature – they were turned too quickly and lost their minds as well as their humanity.

“Back to the feather,” Logan chastised. He walked over to Castiel and stroked his hair, his cheek, stroking all the way down to his neck. Logan then began to stroke something unseen by Sam. He could, however, see the shadow of them: huge wings, wings of an angel, spread out and taking up more room than Sam ever realized they could. “You and Sam know what the ceremony entails, and Castiel has probably filled you in on the details.” His hand trembled when he pulled away from stroking Castiel’s wings, and he gulped. “So don’t lie to me. I want that feather, and you’re going to give it to me.”

_Feathers symbolize hope, grace, majesty, charity, uh, lightness,_ Sam listed in his head, trying to understand so he could hurry up and find a way out of this. If he knew exactly what kind of feather Logan wanted, other than the fact that it’s specifically Castiel’s feather, Sam could try and stop this. He could make up for being three steps behind. _An angel’s wings are so pure human’s can’t see them, but we can use their feathers in spells and curses. There are summoning spells that require the angel’s feather specifically, but that’s not what this is. . . ._

“Why don’t you just pluck one off him, you dumb ass,” Dean grumbled. “I don’t have a God damn feather.”

“I am running out of patience, Dean Winchester!” Logan growled, and the Legion demons either dispersed with high-pitched screams or crumbled to the floor in weeping heaps. A couple vomited and arched their backs in ways that ended with a sickening crack.

_He’s asking Dean specifically for the feather,_ Sam said to himself, trying to ignore the sickening sounds coming from the Legion demons. It was starting to smell like vomit. Sam’s stomach churned and boiled. _God dammit, why is he asking_ Dean _for the feather? Dean and Cas are, well, ya know. Complicated. Does that have anything to do with the feather?_

“I don’t have your fucking feather, you son of a bitch!” Dean growled. 

_“Don’t,”_ Logan warned, _“lie to me.”_ He slowly turned to look at Sam, a hungry look in his eyes that made Sam shiver. “Sammy here has to know what we want in gritty details. He _is_ the smarter one.”

That is half true; Sam _is_ the smarter one, but in relation to the _gritty details_ Logan mentioned, Sam was obviously only partially privy to what the ceremonial rituals are for a trap such as this. Castiel did not, in fact, inform Sam or Dean about what exact ingredients this kind of trap needs – Sam only knew it was serious because what ingredients he could recognize were rare and deeply mythological and religious: a human heart, probably that of a virgin, if Sam were to bet money; small, charred bones, that of infants or toddlers; holy oil, by the smell; and flowers and herbs that Sam could not place nor remember. But that angel feather for which Logan was desperate. Sam surmised it had to have heavy emotional meaning if Logan could not simply pluck one from Castiel and was asking Dean for it. _Again, complicated,_ Sam thought. Castiel giving Dean a feather of his, if that actually happened, is an intimate and powerful thing in the context of angels. Those feathers can be used against the angels, but, in certain circumstances, can be extremely beneficial to the angels if used in the right way. With this ritual, a feather from Castiel given to Dean. . . . 

Then it all clicked for Sam, and he wanted to punch himself. _How could I have missed that? Castiel basically spelled it out!_ Cas told him only yesterday that this ritual required “one very heavily emotional connoted ingredient.” The feather was it. The feather was the damn key.

“Hand over the damn feather,” Logan demanded, “or Johanna here will peel that tattoo off Sammy _really slowly,_ and she and her Legion friends will crawl inside him and make him beat it out of you in a way he knows will make you break.”

Sam’s heart caught in his throat, and he tried to wiggle free of the demon’s hold on him, but was still at the wet touch of Johanna’s tongue against his cheek. She unbuttoned his flannel by a few buttons, revealing his collar bone, teasing at the anti-possession tattoo, and brought her mouth down to press her lips against it. _They don’t know that it’s already messed up,_ Sam thought as Johanna licked his collar bone. _Just play it cool. So gross. Play it cool._ Again she licked him, and Sam cringed and his insides felt like lead. He hissed when she bit him, but only lightly. She giggled innocently, but the wind-chime sound turned sour when she started to make smacking sounds with her mouth. Sam could have gone his whole life never meeting a demon that resembles the demented and deranged demons in the media. This was going to give him nightmares if he lived to have another night’s sleep.

Dean’s eyes met Sam’s, and Sam’s heart constricted at what he saw in Dean’s eyes – the desperate need to protect his little brother. It was widely known among demons, angels, and the dead that Dean will do anything, sacrifice any life, and destroy any soul to protect Sam. But. Dean looked over at Castiel, hanging like a discarded puppet on invisible strings. It is also a universally known fact that Dean and Castiel have a profound bond, one that Sam believes as complicated as it is deep and unwavering. Dean has already proven that by tearing apart Purgatory to find his angel and bring him home. It was proven that by the damn feather. Seeing the war waging inside Dean – protect his brother or save his angel – was enough to tear Sammy apart. 

“I – I – I can’t,” Dean stuttered. “I don’t have – look would you just – just take one from Cas now, God dammit! He’s not gonna fight you, not when he’s a fucking sack of potatoes! Don’t you touch Sammy, _you hear me?_ ”

Sam didn’t know if he wanted Dean to remain ignorant of what the feather entailed or if he wanted him to remember so Sam didn’t have to become his brother’s killer. What is the better option, here? _Either way we lose,_ a defeated Sam thought. _Maybe that damn demon deal was a trick, and I only laid out the red carpet for all of them to make me torture my brother. Damn it. God fucking damn it. We’ve lost._

Dean screamed when Logan rammed his heel into Dean’s knee – not the crook, but the kneecap, bending it in the opposite way it ought to bend. Logan spoke over Dean’s howls of pain: “In order to trap Castiel, we need this last piece, this fucking feather that is such a _pain in the ass_ to get because it is so damn specific. This feather has to be given by the angel to the soul it saved – and _loved_ , got it? Not just saved because it was the angel’s _heavenly duty,_ but saved because that angel loved that soul too much to watch it suffer. You remember Purgatory, don’t you, Dean?” Logan was slinking around Dean in a circle, circling him like vulture, looking for the opening to come down and feast. Dean was too in pain to catch what Logan was implying, and Sam was steeling himself for the look on Dean’s face once he did catch it. 

_How did we not see it before?_ Sam asked himself, his heart breaking for Dean.

Logan stopped circling. There was a hunger in his eyes that made Sam nervous. “Now you’re making it fucking difficult –” Logan kicked Dean’s other kneecap inward, prompting another scream from Dean – “when you could just give us the damn feather and _be done with this! Where is the damn feather?_ ”

“ _I don’t know, okay?!_ He didn’t give me a –” Dean began, but he suddenly stopped. His eyes became distant and wide with some memory unknown to Sam. Dean stared straight at Castiel, his gaze unwavering and somewhere miles and miles away.


	13. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s heart was pounding so hard he thought his heart was going to rip through his chest. He stared at Castiel: the angel hung suspended in air, the shadows of his wings spreading wide across the pavement. The ghost of what the demons needed. The sight broke Dean’s heart. An anger soon overwhelmed the heartbreak, fueling a fire in his veins that licked his limbs. He shifted his eyes to Logan, a lip curling in response to seeing the demon using that poor kid he was possessing to smile in triumph at seeing Dean’s realization and hatred and pain. Dean could not play coy anymore; Logan saw that Dean knew what they needed now.

“ _I don’t know_ , okay?! He didn’t give me a –” Dean began, but he suddenly stopped. The realization hit him harder than a bullet train. He _did_ know. He wished he did not come to this realization. Dean never assumed that there was any meaning behind the feather that Castiel gave him. Thinking about it now, with Castiel’s puppy dog eyes staring at Dean behind his closed eyelids, he wished he would have known this cage business sooner. He would have begged Castiel not to give him the feather. 

But now the memory began to surface out of the recesses of his mind, and it threatened to choke him. A smile slowly crept onto Logan’s face as he watched Dean figure it all out, and he allowed Dean to melt into the memory.

\---  
 _It was sunny outside. Hints of white clouds littered the sky, but they soon rolled past the sun and disappeared, leaving not a hint behind. The sky was an endless baby blue that stretched on far to Dean’s left, and far to his right. A light breeze caressed his cheeks and his forearms. It made his button-up flap open and billow like a cape behind him. Baby, Dean’s beloved car, was warm beneath him; the warmth seeped through his jeans. It was a nice contrast against the chilly bite of the breeze. Before him was a sea of grass and a cliff, with its base stretching out to the horizon. Trees swayed in the breeze atop hills. Dean remembered seeing this place on some nature channel. Perhaps he liked it so much he had to visit it._

_Sammy sat in the grass in front of him, his long hair dancing in the wind. It made him look like some model selling hair product. He wore his usual plaid button-up and faded jeans, and he looked like a lumberjack with all the green surrounding him and his beefy form. Dean had to laugh. How is it that little Sammy became the tall one with the long hair and long legs? Dean fondly remembered the small scrawny kid Sam used to be, and he smiled. Sam chose that moment to look back at Dean, probably feeling like he was being watched, and he gave Dean a faint smile before taking a chug of his beer. Dean did the same._

_Looking out at the horizon, soaking up sun with Sammy, beer in hand – this was close to perfect. One thing to make this all perfect would be –_

_“Hello, Dean,” a husky voice greeted beside him._

_Dean jumped out of his skin, and all the colors dulled as the edges of his vision blurred. Sammy no longer sat in front of the car in the grass, and Dean looked around for him._

_“You’re dreaming, Dean,” Castiel said._

_Dean sighed, looking at the spot at which Sam previously sat. “Knew it was too good to be actual reality,” he grunted. He took a swig. “So what are you doing here, Cas? Why not just wake me up and talk if it’s so important.”_

_Castiel was silent – well, he’s usually silent, but the way he shifted his weight from one leg to the other told Dean this was a purposeful silence. Cas was stalling._

_“I wouldn’t say this was a generally important conversation that I am trying to have with you,” Castiel admitted. “Rather, it is a conversation that is personally important to me.”_

_“So why come to me in a dream?” Dean asked, and a grin crept onto his face. “Make it harder for me to run away?”_

_“Need I remind you that this is your dream and therefore your place to control, not mine. You are welcome to wake up and abandon this conversation.”_

_“Cas, I was joking,” Dean exhaled. He took another swig, finishing the bottle. As he threw the bottle off the edge of the cliff, he asked, “What’s on your mind, Cas? Didn’t want Sammy to overhear so you chose to talk to me in a dream?”_

_Cas answered, “You could say that,” and circled around to sit on the hood of the impala like Dean. He looked stiff and kept adjusting his legs, making a face all the while, so he stopped and stood up straight, letting his hands drop to his sides. He walked to the driver’s side door and leaned against it, but it was obvious he was still uncomfortable. Dean found it incredibly amusing watching Cas try to be casual._

_“Relax, Cas,” Dean told him. “I’m not gonna bite your head off, whatever you got to say.”_

_After another moment of silence, Castiel spoke: “Dean, have you ever used or even seen an angel feather?”_

_“Uh, yeah,” Dean answered, searching his mind for the memory. The sky above him faltered; blurred images of memories through which Dean sifted were revealed on the clear blue sky. Dean only looked at them for a moment before looking down to watch Castiel. He squinted up at the sky, occasionally grinning when Dean sifted through a memory of him or Sam messing up on a summoning chant and laughing at each other. A fuzzy memory showed itself, one Dean barely remembers, but that could be because he was told something about an angel feather and some sort of blood spell by someone else._

_“Do you know what they could be used for, other than blood spells?” Castiel asked. He crossed his arms, a make-shift shield for his chest, where his heart was._

_“They can summon angels, if ya use ‘em right, but it’s real tricky,” Dean answered before he stared too long at the angel. “Uh, I think they can use the feather to bind the angel to something – a person, a curse, a place, shit like that. Other than how to use it against an angel, I don’t really know anything else.”_

_“That’s why angels are often protective of their feathers; they’re as defensive of them as spirits and demons are about their bones. If an angel is careless about where their feathers end up, it could end in either eternal suffering by a curse or it could end in their death. There are, however, less morbid meanings of feathers.” Cas smiled to himself, and he looked up at Dean. When their eyes met, the sun started to dip towards the horizon, casting a peachy pink and gold glow upon them. It hovered above the horizon and did not move again._

_“Angel feathers are symbols of peace, majesty, and grace. To whom an angel gives their feathers carries deep meaning. It can be used later to help the angel either by freeing it from certain binding spells or curses; healing the angel; or used in protection spells for the person the angel gave the feather to and the angel itself.” This is when Dean started to notice the blush to Castiel’s cheeks, and in turn Dean began to flush, only because he did not know what to expect – he never before noticed Cas blush before._

_“When an angel gives its feathers away,” the angel continued, “it is with purpose, and usually the person is someone of great importance to that angel. With that feather, the person who holds it has the power to break the angel, but they are trusted to save them, if the time comes.” He cleared his throat, and he looked down at his folded hands, pursing his lips. He did not speak again._

_“Uh, okay,” Dean said. He cleared his throat as well. “Thanks for the, uh, lesson on angel feathers, Cas.”_

_“Well I – I just –” Cas stammered, reaching inside his pocket. Dean’s curiosity got the better of him, and he perked up like a dog catching the scent of bacon. Castiel pulled out a rectangular box, one that looked like it would hold a lady’s pearl necklace or something. His fingers drummed against it, and he looked up at Dean. “I wanted you to know that I trust you.”_

_“Back at’cha, Cas,” Dean responded immediately. His mouth felt dry, and his palms sweaty. This conversation was teetering on the borders of a territory he did not want to cross._

_The blush reached Castiel’s ears as he stretched his arm out to hand the box to Dean. He didn’t hesitate to take it, and when he did, he grinned at Castiel. The angel avoided his eyes, the blush still creeping around his ears, spreading to his neck. He scratched his neck in response to the spread._

_“I know where to keep it,” Dean announced, and Castiel gave him a side-long glance. He tilted his head curiously when Dean hopped down off the hood and went to the passenger-side door. Castiel stood up to hover over Dean as he opened the door and plopped down in the seat. Dean put the box inside the glove compartment, placing it beside the fuck ton of phones he keeps for jobs; the picture of Sammy from his freshman year in one of the many high schools they attended; and the flask – one of the first things he bought with his own money – of holy water Dean kept in there just in case._

_He looked over at Castiel, and a grin shamelessly spread across Dean’s face. It was a dream, so he could be as openly flattered as he wished. He could wake up from this and pretend it never happened – and who knows, maybe Castiel is part of his dream and not really there. He could be creepily watching Dean while he sleeps as he has often caught the angel doing._

_When Dean woke up, that’s exactly what Castiel was doing. The angel jumped when Dean opened his eyes and immediately got up from his seat to move to the window, muttering something about getting breakfast for the brothers. Dean groggily nodded, and Castiel was gone in a second. Dean took the opportunity to fumble to the door, snatching his car keys from the nightstand on the way. Sammy was taking a shower and singing a Rolling Stones song off key. He would not notice Dean’s hasty awakening._

_Dean dragged his feet to the car as fast as his tired limbs could move, and he unlocked the door. Eyes still heavy with sleep, he plopped down in the driver’s seat and reached over to the glove compartment. He hung his head and groped inside the compartment blindly, and he grabbed hold of something that felt like what he was trying to find. He yawned and dropped the box onto his lap. When he finally got the guts to look at it, he blinked a couple times, trying to wrap his head around it.  
Rubbing his eyes with his fist, he asked himself, “’S not it, is it?”_

_He twisted it in his hands, trying to connect the dots. Then he decided just to open it and see if he was just dreaming about Cas awkwardly giving him one of his feathers or not. Dean breathed in deeply, opened the rectangular box, and exhaled deeply. A shiny black feather about as long as his hand sat inside. He closed it quickly, nearly threw it back into the glove compartment, and ran --_ Work, feet, dammit, _Dean thought -– back into the room. He flung himself onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow, and sighed deeply. Dean felt guilty, and he didn’t know why; the guilt was similar to what he felt years ago when he was in his early twenties and he got freaky with a seventeen year old who lied about not being a virgin. Guilty like he stole innocence and purity when he himself was not so pure and innocent. There was such a raw trust insinuated with that damn feather that Dean could not nor did he want to deal with right now. It was such raw trust that he has not felt from anyone. It was too raw for Dean._

_Sammy came out of the shower to find Dean groaning into his pillow, trying to expel the feelings of confusion and guilt. When Sam asked what was wrong, Dean just flipped him off, and Sam brushed it off with a chuckle just as Castiel returned with breakfast. Castiel gave Dean a look. Dean nodded slightly. Things returned to normal after that. Dean, however, felt different, that’s for sure._  
¬---

Dean’s heart was pounding so hard he thought his heart was going to rip through his chest. He stared at Castiel: the angel hung suspended in air, the shadows of his wings spreading wide across the pavement. The ghost of what the demons needed. The sight broke Dean’s heart. An anger soon overwhelmed the heartbreak, fueling a fire in his veins that licked his limbs. He shifted his eyes to Logan, a lip curling in response to seeing the demon using that poor kid he was possessing to smile in triumph at seeing Dean’s realization and hatred and pain. Dean could not play coy anymore; Logan saw that Dean knew what they needed now.

“Good,” Logan crooned, and he took careful steps toward Castiel. “Are you going to tell us where it is, Dean? Or are we going to have to get Sammy here to beat it out of you?”

Dean immediately cried out, “No!” Logan bit his lip, grinning all the while, and he stroked a hand through Castiel’s hair. Dean had to force himself to keep still. No more outbursts. “No, no, I’ll hook you up with the damn thing.”

“Dean,” Sammy warned, and Dean’s eyes flickered to his kid brother. Sam probably came to the realization before Dean did. Sammy’s smart like that. Dean may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew how to get down to business when the time came, and he hoped the plan he was incubating would hatch success.

“I don’t want them to hurt you, Sammy,” Dean explained. He was going to try and fake the hitch in his voice, but there was no need. It was still genuine, and Dean was still scared, fighting the pain in his heart and the numbing pain in his broken legs. He looked to Logan as the demon continued stroking Castiel’s hair. “Don’t put a finger on Sam, you hear me?”

“What about your angel?” Logan asked with mock innocence. He stroked Castiel’s hair and dragged his hand down to his cheek, smearing the blood that fell from Castiel’s sky blue eyes. “You don’t care if I lay a finger or more on him?” He brought his lips down to Castiel’s ears and began saying things in Enochian. Dean’s heart began to race. His stomach dropped to his feet. Castiel suddenly gasped, his back arching, and his fingers curling into claws. The shadows of his wings splayed out farther than Dean thought they could go. Cas let out a howl as blood blossomed on his chest.

“Look, I told you I’d give you what you want!” Dean cried out. Panic poisoned his veins. “Don’t _touch_ him!”

Logan chuckled and put his hands parallel to his shoulders, grinning down at the circle of blood in the middle of Castiel’s chest. “Just havin’ a little fun, Dean; just trying to lighten the mood.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, and he looked down at the ground to hide the panic seeping out of his pores, pooling in his eyes.

“Where is the feather?” Logan demanded. “Tell us, and I’ll have Hazel retrieve it.”

“It’s in –”

“Dean, _no!_ ”

“Sammy!” Dean roared in warning, and Sam shut his mouth, sweat dripping down his brow. _That kid is always sweating,_ Dean thought endearingly. _Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll get us out of this . . . somehow_. He turned to Logan. “It’s in my car. It’s warded so you’ll have to bring me along to get it. Gonna have to fix my legs up to do it, too. Breaking the legs of the guy who has the feather wasn’t too smart.”

Logan measured what Dean said, staring at Dean for a moment before shifting his eyes to Castiel. The angel gasped and choked, no longer screaming but instead letting out a weak, “No,” every now and again. His fingers twitched, and the shadow of his wings shifted in spurts. Dean had to look away again. He did not know what was worse: Castiel hanging limp and with his0 mouth slack in a silent scream, stuck in what Dean thought was limbo, or a Castiel alive and fighting to stay so. Conscious or comatose. _I can’t take this anymore,_ Dean thought, and he hung his shoulders in defeat. He quickly squared them again when Logan spoke:

“Hazel, accompany Dean, will you, love?” Hazel stood beside Sam, her stolen fingers stroking his chest, raking fingers along it none too gently. Johanna’s eyes stared back at Logan, her eyes ablaze with curiosity. _Oh, Johanna,_ Dean thought. _I hope you’re dead in there. It’ll be easier for you. Don’t end up like Hazel._

Hazel appeared beside Dean, wrapping her stolen arms around his torso and bringing her stolen lips to his ear. She nibbled at his earlobe, but she bit too hard and Dean hissed in pain. Her hand snaked down to his legs. With one touch, they were healed. Her hands shook. Dean bet she wanted to break his legs again.

“You,” Logan commanded, pointing at an unknown demon. “Go with her. Take him to his car and bring me back the feather and Dean _alive_ , you understand?”

“But I want to feel his bones shatter again,” Hazel protested, gripping Dean’s bad shoulder tight. Dean had to stifle his pain. 

_“I created you, so you will do as I say,”_ Logan warned, and Hazel shrunk back. “Go, _now._ ”

Hazel’s grip on Dean’s left shoulder, the injured one, tightened, and he could not hold back the groan of pain. Before he could recover from the pain, he, Hazel, and some unknown demon in an unknown meatsuit were beside his car in the hotel parking lot. This is when Dean wished he had driven himself, his brother, and the angel to the amusement park rather than have Cas zap ‘em in there. He would have been closer.

“Retrieve the feather, Dean,” Hazel commanded. She pushed him against the car door, and he and his shoulder screamed in pain at the impact. She groped him and pressed herself against him, slithering her hand up his shirt. Her lips moved against his jaw as she spoke. “If you try anything, I will have to disobey direct orders not to break your handsome face.”

“You’re crushing my boner,” Dean replied sarcastically, and he jammed an elbow into Hazel’s – _Sorry, Johanna,_ Dean thought – ribs. She backed away. “Give me some space, will ya?”

He circled around to the passenger’s side door and pulled his keys out of his pocket with his good arm, all the while hovered over by Hazel and the other demon. He plopped down into the passenger seat and unlocked the glove compartment. Gave him time to stall. “So, Hazel – or Johanna, whichever. What’s gonna happen once you trap the butterfly in the net, huh? C’mon, tell me. I mean, I’m giving you the key that locks the cage, right?”

Dean heard a soft click, and when he looked behind him the demon that accompanied Hazel became as rigid as a plank, the dude’s eyes all black instead of brown. He started to chant things in Enochian, with Latin words, ones Dean barely recognized, sprinkled here and there in its chant. Hazel’s eyes turned black with a soft click as well, and she backhanded the other demon so hard that its head almost made a full one-eighty. Hazel let out a giggle, but covered her mouth. She could not hold her laughter back for long, and she cupped the demon’s meatsuit’s cheeks in her hand before snapping it in the other direction.

_Now or never,_ Dean, he said to himself, and he grabbed the flask of holy water with his good arm. He opened it and flung it in one graceful swoop, and grinned at the sound of sizzling flesh. _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,”_ Dean began, and he flung more holy water on the demons as they tried to advance on him, _“omnis satanica potestas –”_ The two demons began to scream, blood curdling screams that echoed in the silent night. Their sizzling flesh joined their screams in a chorus of an exorcism, and when it reached its crescendo, the demons poured out of their meatsuits’ mouths and followed some unknown trail to Hell.

Dean allowed himself a moment to feel the aching, throbbing pain in his dislocated shoulder – hell, it was probably broken, no use denying it. _God damn demons_ , he cursed. At least it was his left shoulder. Perhaps if he popped it back into place it would feel a tad better. . . . 

_Pop!_

He gripped the open car door so tight it started to hurt, and he yelled, _“Fucking hell!”_ He moaned in pain and tried to breathe evenly, riding out the pain. It was just dislocated; perhaps all the times the demons popped it in and out of place made it not so broken? _Who the fuck knows,_ Dean shrugged, and he hissed in pain. Popping it back on his own was never the most fun thing to do. It wasn’t the best thing to do either, not without someone else to help, as they have a better angle to do it. This would just have to do. Dean rolled his shoulder slowly to assess how well popping it back into place worked, and he hissed when he reached a certain point. As long as he did not move it jerkily and did not swing it hard, he could manage. 

Dean sat back down in the passenger seat and looked inside the glove compartment. The box in which the feather lay stared back at him. It would have been better if they sent Sam to get it; Dean did not know how to use spell and summoning ingredients like Sam did off the top of his head. 

He looked down at Johanna and the other dude the demons were possessing. The guy did not look like he was breathing, but that made sense because Hazel broke his fucking neck. Dean breathed a soft, “Damn demons.” Johanna’s chest, however, rose and fell in easy succession, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. After he brought the two bodies inside the hotel room – which took a lot of effort for Dean, as the hand that Logan crushed beneath his sneaker was broken – Dean refilled the flask back up with holy water. He left a wad of cash, nothing much, for Johanna and a note that said, “Cab money, get somewhere safe,” but he didn’t think it would do much – hell, he didn’t even know if she remembered being possessed. It was, however, the best he could do with so little time.

He hopped in the car and shot out of that parking lot like a bat out of Hell. Dean decided to park down the street from the closed amusement park. He found a col de sac of a nearby quaint neighborhood. He sat in the car for a second to mull things over, figure out a plan to go in there and – _and what, Dean?_ he asked himself. _You just gonna go in with guns blazing and fling what little holy water you have at the fuck ton of demons there?_

He did have a point – all he had was holy water against a legion of demons called the fuckin’ _Legion._ He pulled out one of the many phones he keeps in the glove compartment and checked each one; he was not necessarily looking for any one thing, he was mostly trying to keep his hands busy as he thought. Sam was usually the one that came up with better plans, ones that did not call for _guns blazing._

_Fuck it all,_ Dean thought. He was not going to be able to bust Cas out _and_ free Sammy at the same time, so he was going to have to grab Sammy first and get Cas later. As much as he hated it, this is all he could think to do right now. The more he sat there scratchin’ his balls, the longer Sam and Cas were left with the Legion and Logan-not-Logan.

_You’re gonna get yourself killed, asshat,_ Dean told himself.

He stuffed his phone in his pocket and clutched the flask of holy water in his good hand. _When has that ever stopped me?_ he replied, and he slammed his door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the dream, have my OTP feels songs:  
> [Fix You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pY9b6jgbNyc) \- Coldplay  
> [O](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-6IUdV2dos) \- Coldplay
> 
> When Dean and Hazel go off somewhere (no spoilers haha):  
> [ Wanted Dead Or Alive - Bon Jovie, because he rocks on occasion.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SRvCvsRp5ho)


	14. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll give him complicated,” Logan continued, and without loosening his grip on Sam’s jaw, he barked at a random demon: “ _You!_ You told me I’d have to order you to possess Sam. Well, it’s time, you prophetic whore.”

Dean had been gone for far too long. If it felt like Dean was taking too long to Sam, a human who is used to moving slow and not fortunate enough to teleport, then Dean was really taking too long to get the feather. Logan had been simmering since Dean left with Johanna and the other demon, and now he was far past being done. Sam’s heart rate picked up with every passing second that his big brother was gone, and with every step Logan took as he paced.

“Your brother is a fucking pain in my ass,” Logan told Sam, and he stomped toward him. The ground cracked beneath his feet with every step, and Sam tried to wriggle free of his invisible restraints. He knew how useless that was, and yet he did not care. Logan had a fire in his eyes and a twitch to his claw-like hands. Logan snatched Sam’s chin in those claws and gripped so tight Sam could feel his jaw crackle beneath his skin. Logan yanked down, forcing Sam’s mouth open. Sam could not close it no matter how hard he tried. Every ounce he put into fighting Logan’s grip, the harder Logan clutched his chin, and the sharper the pain in his jaw became.

“If he wants to make this complicated, _fine,_ ” Logan hissed between his teeth. Spittle landed on Sam’s cheek and his nose. Despite the pain, Sam found himself fairly grossed out by the spittle; however, the emanate breaking of his jaw and the sharp pressure that was quickly becoming unbearable kept him from reacting to the wet drops. 

“I’ll give him complicated,” Logan continued, and without loosening his grip on Sam’s jaw, he barked at a random demon: “ _You!_ You told me I’d have to order you to possess Sam. Well, it’s time, you prophetic whore.”

“Do not,” the demon replied, “address me as such. I am called Sheila now.” Sam’s heart nose-dived to the floor. “Just because you created me does not mean that I have to be subject to your demeaning nicknames.” Sheila. The demon Sam met back at the bunker. She was actually here. Everything was falling into place, just as she had told him it would.

_“In a few months, you’re going to want me on your side,”_ said she in a distant memory of his, _“as I will be summoned to work with the ones who have been plotting against the archangels. I will be summoned and I will be asked to possess you; I will be ordered to do something you’d rather die than do with your own two hands.”_ He made the deal with the demon to save his brother, all for permission for possession. It was real. Sam did not think it would actually happen, and now it finally was happening. He did not imagine the deal, nor did he imagine the prediction. It was all real.

Logan yanked down Sam’s shirt, revealing his anti-possession tattoo. 

_“I will possess you,”_ the voice crooned in his memory, _“and if it is the first time, it will be paired with the borderline torturous removal of your anti-possession symbol. Not by my hand.”_

_She meant Logan’s hands,_ Sam thought. Logan looked down at Sam’s anti-possession tattoo and stroked the scar Sam made for the she-demon all those months ago. It marred the pattern. It was now an open door into his body. Logan, in response to the state of Sam’s tattoo, said, “You really should have taken care of that, Sammy. You’re making this far too easy for us.”

Sheila fled from her body with a shrieking scream. The black smoke barreling towards him did not look familiar – but all demon smoked looked the same, aside from Crowley’s, as his was red. Time seemed to slow down to an aching crawl as Sam stared at the black demon smoke. Next thing he knew it was jamming its way down his throat. He had to fight his own will to keep his body from rejecting the foreign entity. It was a situation he thought he would never be in: laying out the red carpet for a demon. His body went numb with a rolling wave. The demon was now inside. He could feel the loss of control, the emanate blacking out, and the feeling of being chained to the prison that was now his mind. His thoughts were his own, but he was not alone. 

Sheila’s voice hummed, _Lucy, I’m home._ Sam was thrust back to their first meeting: she on one side of the salt line in a rotting corpse of a vessel, Sam on the other side of the salt line in Dean’s room. 

_Oh, I feel your doubt, Sam,_ she continued. _I told you: what I prophesize will come true, and I am on your side._

_But why?_ Sam asked. He had asked her the same question months ago. She never replied to him during their first encounter. This time, however, she had an answer:

_My last act of service to the one who was to be our valiant leader, the Boy King Sam Winchester._

_We’ll save Dean?_

_For the most part._

Sam pulled at the chains, and he swear he could hear the rattling. _What the hell is that supposed to mean? You keep skirting around a direct answer – and I demand a straight answer, damn you! What the hell is that supposed to mean?!_

_You shall see._

Sam was gagged, and he fought in vain for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Castle of Glass (instrumental)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CVC1G_hTOSA) \- Linkin Park


	15. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other demon’s started to stare, one by one; a mix of black eyes and normal blue, brown, and green eyes found Dean, all of which had hunger and insane desire written on their faces. Dean started to run, and he heard Logan shout, “Get him, and bring him back alive, damn you all!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I have music suggestions at the end notes. I call this chapter the Dean Show because the beginning is Dean being the nerd we all know he is, and heavily features music from the show. :) Anywho, enough of me: enjoy!

If having the entrance to the amusement park sprinkled with corpses was “guarding,” then Logan was “guarding” the entrance. Dean stealthily made his way into the amusement park – and to Dean, stealthy was jumping over fences and falling on his ass, rolling across open pathways and not only _looking_ like an ass, but being stupid because he rolled on his bad shoulder. _All right, Secret Agent Dork,_ Dean told himself, _pull yourself together._ So far his plan was to lead whatever demons he could to the employee locker room, as there were some demon traps lying in wait; however, there were no stray patrol demons to be found. Dean had to assume they were centered on Logan and Castiel. Dean could go in and try to do . . . something . . . ( _Yeah, great plan, there, Dean,_ he sarcastically thought to himself) or he could lure them all to the locker room full of traps. _Let’s go with that,_ he thought.

Dean snuck into the locker room, peaking behind corners and from behind hedges as he went. Everything was as he left it. He nearly cried when he found his duffle-bag with ammo, his gun, and the rock salt Sammy used to load the bullets. He armed himself with the loaded gun, salt, and holy water before searching for something with which to make more traps. There was already ones painted behind closed doors, but Dean thought he would add ones to the ceilings. He only had so much spray paint left, so he spread the traps throughout the locker room. If he was going to trap as many demons in here as he could, he would need a lot of traps. To keep them all in the building, he could make salt lines at the front and back doors of the locker room. But how to lure them all in? _That’s the thing,_ he thought to himself. _I can’t lure that many of them over without attracting Logan’s attention. So, go big or go home._

Dean checked all the traps once more before leaving out the back door. He left a salt line in his wake. Now when he trapped them all in there, he’d salt the front door as well. No windows, so he did not worry about those. The demon traps would keep most of them occupied. If this worked, Dean could at least get some henchmen out of the way. He had no clue what to do with Logan, _but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. The fewer goons he’s got, the better._

He did a better job of sneaking over to where Logan and the others were – no rolling on his bad shoulder that time. He made it over to a hedge that gave him a good view of the Legion, Castiel, and Sammy, who had been relocated closer to Logan and Castiel. Dean breathed a sigh of relief; as far as he could see, Sammy was okay. He looked relaxed as well, which meant he was not hurt. Sam would hate Dean for what he was about to do, but he had to be very obvious in getting his brother’s attention, thus exposing himself to the demons. Then he would have to run like hell. 

Dean left the concealment of the hedge and, against what little self-preservation instincts he had, hissed, _Pssst!_ as annoying and loud as he could manage. He waved his arms at Sam dramatically, and stopped to rub his bad shoulder. He then stage whispered, _“Hey! Psst!”_ once more. Some demons began searching for the source of the noise. Sammy simply stared in Dean’s general direction. He was without fear, nor did he show any confusion; rather, he looked . . . bored. Then their eyes met, and Dean went from relieved to murderous, and everything was cast in a fiery hue. Sam’s eyes turned a pale white like Alistair’s with a blink, and he pointed at Dean.

“It’s Dean Winchester,” the demon said with Sammy’s voice, but it was so not Sammy. His voice sounded too smooth, too velvety, and too hell-bent on sending the demons off to kill Dean.

The other demon’s started to stare, one by one; a mix of black eyes and normal blue, brown, and green eyes found Dean, all of which had hunger and insane desire written on their faces. Dean started to run, and he heard Logan shout, “Get him, and bring him back alive, damn you all!”

It was quiet for a moment, and the only sound Dean could hear was his own breathing and his footsteps pounding against the cement. It was the calm before the storm. He looked behind him once to check if they were following him, and all he saw was the hedge. An eruption of thundering footsteps boomed behind him, and when he looked over his shoulder once more, a horde of Legion were running after him, occupying space they had not seconds before. Laughter and growls joined the chorus of footsteps. They were gaining on him. Dean had never run so fast before. Thank God he left the front door to the locker room open, or those few precious seconds he would have wasted opening it would have meant his capture. He slammed the front door shut and bolted to the back door and ran through, careful to conceal himself. He closed it just as he started to hear the demons enter. After he put a salt line in front of the door, he ran around to see if he could salt the other door as well, steeling himself against the likelihood of having to gun a few down, when he saw something surprisingly peculiar. 

Dean was used to Sam killing demons; Sam had been as trained as Dean when it came to wielding a knife and driving it through a monster’s heart, if that were its weak spot; however, Sammy was currently possessed by a demon, _so why in the hell is it killing its own kind?_ Dean asked. Sam’s eyes were still a pale cream, revealing the demon inside. He killed the few stragglers that refused to go inside the building and those who had seen what the traitor had done tried escaping. Sam pushed the ones he couldn’t kill inside and slammed the door shut with telekinesis. The only sound was the demons pounding on the door or on walls inside, screaming and shrieking all the while. Sam only stood with his shoulders squared and his knuckles white from gripping the knife so tightly. He breathed evenly. Then, he put the knife in his jacket pocket and sighed. He looked over at Dean peering around the corner.

“If you want to keep them in there, you’ll want to salt the door, Dean,” Sam said calmly, smoothly. Dean came around the corner and immediately pointed the gun at Sam, despite it being _Sam._ Sam’s eyes clicked, and they became their normal, sympathetic brown-green. His face went from looking bored to sad with eyebrows turned up in remorse. His fists clenched and unclenched. When he spoke again, Dean could tell that the demon was not the one to speak. He could read it in Sam’s face, and hear it in the way his voice cracked:

“Dean, it’s me,” Sam breathed. “I mean it. It’s okay. Give me the salt. They’ll open the door and get us both if you don’t.” He stretched his hand out cautiously, but made no move towards Dean.

“Why are you in control?” Dean barked. He did not lower the gun. He did not know what to think.

Sam decided to put his hands up in surrender. “Salt the door and when we’re safe, I’ll explain.”

Dean did as was suggested, only because the pounding was started to make Dean nervous. When he salted the door, the demons inside growled and wailed. It was hard to ignore. Dean kept the gun in his hand, but he could no longer stand to point it at his little brother, especially when he began looking like Sam once more. He was sweaty, as per the usual with Sammy, and he looked full of guilt, as was also the usual with Sammy. What Dean could not wrap his head around was _why_ Sammy looked and talked and stood like Sammy. If he was being possessed by such a powerful demon – the milk white eyes that resembled Lilith’s hinted at the immense power – then why was Sam in control?

“Explain,” Dean commanded. “Now.”

“Long story short, I found a demon trapped in our bunker months ago,” Sam answered breathlessly. “I didn’t know it, but she was the first ever Legion demon created. She can predict the future – and Dean, she predicted _this_ , all of it – the archangel crap, Cas, you –” he cut himself short, and before Dean could ask what the hell that meant, Sam continued: “For a price, she can help you save someone you care about.” Dean could not stand to look at Sam. He turned around and faced the wall. Fire was in his eyes once more. Sam spoke louder. "You’re my brother, Dean, and please, please understand that I am trying to protect you."

Dean reeled on his brother and hissed, “Damn it, Sammy!” _I could punch him. I could kill him,_ Dean thought. He nearly grabbed Sam by the collar of his shirt and shook him. Dean was on fire.

“All she asked was for possession so she could get out of the bunker, that’s it, just possession, and for that she said she would be on our side when all this shit happened. She _knew_ Logan was going to ask her to possess me, so she feigned loyalty. That’s why she killed those demons. That’s why I’m me right now. Logan doesn’t know that, though, and that gives us the upper hand. We can save Cas, and . . . and you.”

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam turned pale. He was quiet for too long. He was thinking of a lie. “Your half-assed plan to capture Logan’s goons,” Sam answered. He was sweating again. “You were being an idiot –”

“ _I_ was being an idiot?!” Dean bellowed. “Who’s the one who made a demon deal after all the shit we’ve been through?!”

“— and making yourself a target for all those Legion demons!”

Dean did not think, he only punched Sam square in the jaw. His arm ached and his knuckles stung with the impact, but he did not care. Sam reeled and let out a groan before bringing his hand to his face. Dean could hate Sam all he wanted, but it was too late. The deal had been made. The plan set in motion. All Dean could hope for now is that the demon held up its end of the deal and save their asses. 

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean repeated, but it was a defeated sigh. “Fine. But that demon better understand something: I will –”

“Might as well meet me if you’re going to give me orders,” Sam interrupted, and with a soft _click,_ Sam’s eyes turned completely white. Dean’s veins became trails of molten lava. “You may call me Sheila, as that is what I introduced myself to Sam. I, however, have many names.”

“Yeah, I think Fucking Whore might be one of them,” Dean replied.

“Oh, Dean,” the demon sighed. _Click._ Sam’s eyes returned to normal, but with the way Sam grinned at Dean, he could tell it was still _her._ “My deals are concrete and set it stone. You and Sam here will save the Angel of Thursday, as well as . . .” Sam chuckled, but he did not continue speaking. Dean waited, but still he said nothing.

“What?!” Dean demanded.

“You’d have to pay up if I told you, Winchester,” the demon replied. “A whore does not work for free.”

“Fucking hell,” Dean muttered.

“I’ll bring Sam back, but he will be following my lead, as will you. Logan may not suspect that I am two-faced; however, one slip-up from either of you will cost you dearly, do you understand?”

Dean hated to say yes, but he did.

“So you _are_ smart,” the demon chuckled. “Good. Just pick up what Sam puts down, as the modern lingo goes, and we may be able to save your angel.”

Dean’s face felt hot. Far too many times today has Dean heard Castiel called _your angel._ He did not need to tread down that path any more than he already had.

“Got it. Now give me Sam. I’m tired of listening to you.”

“As am I to you.” With a blink, Sam was back. His posture was less relaxed, his face less slack, and instead he was more tense and guilty looking than ever. Dean wanted to slap himself – and Sam, for that matter. When would they ever learn not to trust demons?

“We need to get the feather, Dean,” Sam said.

“What? Isn’t Logan going to use that thing to lock Cas in the cage?”

“Yes, but it can also be used to save Cas,” Sam replied. “You’re the only one who can – at least, that’s what Sheila told me.”

“Why?”

Sam’s cheeks began to flush, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Well, the spell can only be completed with the feather the angel gave to the soul it loves, right? So, that same soul is the only one who can free the angel. It also requires your blood, creepily enough. You have to place the feather on his heart and _bleed_ on him.”

“Gross.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam agreed. “You know that handprint Cas left when he saved you from Hell? You’ll have to put a bloody handprint on him on the same shoulder. Like a mirror of yours. Apparently it was done eons ago with some woman and her angel lover –”

“ _Don’t_ mention that in this context, damn it!”

“— who happen to be the parents of the one and only nephilim on earth.”

“All right, just – tell Sheila to zap us to my car and back. I’m done talking about this.”

Sheila brought them to Dean’s car. After Dean tucked the box which held the feather inside his jacket, he and Sam arrived at the hedge at which Dean tried attracting all the demons. He and Sam crouched behind it and scanned the area. Dean avoided looking at Cas. From the corner of his eye he could see him, though, and it was getting hard to ignore. A small puddle of red had formed in the shadow of his magnificent wings. He was still suspended in air, and there were still crimson streaks staining his face. Dean saw nothing else, because there was only Logan and a couple goons left over. Dean stared at Logan. A twinge of fear washed over Dean. Logan was fuming; he was pacing back and forth with black, soulless eyes.

“We have to go out there and reveal ourselves,” Sam said slowly, cautiously. He kept his distance from Dean up until then. “Sheila will bring you over using her telekinesis to make it look like you are really captured, but once we are over there, she’s going to help me do the rest. You’re on your own. Don’t move. You have to stand still. It’s very important.” Dean gave a curt nod. “All right. Ready?”

Dean felt the invisible hands stroke his back and push him forward. He did not feel completely trapped, like he usually does when being pushed around by demons with their freaky demon powers. In fact, he still felt mostly in control. Just chained. When he and Sam went out into the open, Logan looked pleased.

“Decided to join us, Dean?” Logan asked. “How you managed to do away with all those Legion is beyond me.”

“I’m good with traps,” Dean replied.

“So you are.” Logan snapped, and in an instant, Sam was beside him. Damn kid was sweating again, but other than that, it was hard to tell if it was Sam or Sheila. “Do you have the feather?”

“Tucked away in his jacket pocket,” Sam replied. His voice was still rough. He gulped. _Come on, Sammy._ “Had I taken it off his person, he would not have his arms, and I assumed from all your barking that you wanted him alive and armed, in the anatomical sense.”

 _Damn, she’s sassy, that one,_ Dean thought.

“He might have bled out, and I do need his blood,” Logan agreed. He seemed in a better mood now that everything was falling back into place. He walked over to Dean and stared him down. Dean stared Logan down in return. He felt his blood pumping, and heard his heart pounding in his ears. His limbs felt stiff and tingly. He wanted to reach into his back pocket and pull out his gun, but he had to fight the urge to kill. He had to stick with the plan. He had to appear trapped. The predatory instinct within him felt challenged, however, and it was hard to fight an instinct so primal.

“You three,” he barked at the left over goons. They shrunk back. “Leave us. You are no longer needed.” The three demons screamed as their black smoke poured out of their meatsuits mouths, and the bodies collapsed. Dean could not even guess where they were going. 

Finally, Logan stopped his peacock display. “I’d like that feather, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I do,” Dean replied.

“It’s a good thing I don’t care that you do.”

Before Dean could think, Logan was grabbing on to Dean’s bad arm and yanking it back, opening up his jacket so he could reach in and take the feather. Dean only reacted. He reached for his gun with the other hand and pointed it at Logan’s chest. The only thing he could think was, _Shoot, shoot, shoot!_ And so he did.

 _“Dean!”_ Sam roared.

Logan let out a horrible shriek in Dean’s ear, and Dean flinched back. He ran to Castiel while Logan dealt with his salty wound. He pulled the feather out, letting the box fall to the ground with a soft _clack_. He heard Sam grunt behind him, but whatever was happening to him now, Dean would deal with in a second. Right now he had to save Cas, and he was so close. He could save Cas. 

The moment he touched Cas, he felt an ache deep within his chest. It was dull at first, but then it grew in intensity. It was freezing. A cold so icy that it burned. Dean began to feel numb. It was hard to yank back Castiel’s coat and shirt to reveal his shoulder. When Dean placed the feather on the angel’s chest, it glazed over with frost. Dean could hear Sam shouting behind him, but it was muffled. Distant. All that mattered was Cas. He did not have anything to cut himself with, so Dean bit his own arm so hard he tasted blood. The only pain he felt was from his hot blood that boiled against his skin as if it really were molten lava. He smeared the blood on his hand. _Oh God, it burns,_ but he could save Cas. He could do it. 

He was about to place his hand on Castiel’s shoulder when it happened. Logan’s hot breath was in his ear, and his arms were wrapped around his neck. His body heat was too intense for Dean. He wanted to scream, but that would show his weakness, and he could not afford to show it.

“Not so fast,” Logan growled.

Dean has never really been on the receiving end of being stabbed; he has always been on the side that stabs rather than being stabbed. He gasped when the knife dove into his torso. He had fleeting images of Sam being stabbed the first time he watched his brother die. That was so long ago, and they were so naïve. So young. Sam now had to watch Dean getting stabbed, rather than Dean watching Sammy being stabbed. Sam had to watch Dean fall to the ground as his legs lost their strength. But Dean was still there; he was still alive. No light beckoned him forward, and no gaping chasm opened beneath him to dump him into the fiery pits of hell. When he looked down to see where Logan stabbed him, it was between the ribs on his left side. It was suddenly hard to breathe; Dean felt as though he could not get enough air. His heart pounded so hard, so hard it hurt so badly. _What is happening. I can’t breathe. What is happening,_ Dean kept repeating.

“Thank you for bringing the feather for me, Dean,” Logan said. It sounded fuzzy. Dean’s panting was too loud in his ears. “I’m just gonna need a little blood, that’s all. If you die in the process, well, that’s my treat for such a hard day’s work.”

Sam had been yelling the whole time for Dean, cursing Logan and spitting threats. It was suddenly cut off, and Sam regained his composure. Sam was gone.

 _I should have stuck to the plan,_ Dean thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the start of the chapter:  
> [Dean's Dirty Organ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XbmYdQNO2wk) \- Score for Supernatural
> 
> When Dean is spotted (chapter preview):  
> [The Meatsuit Mambo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6vqZQEfG4k) \- Score for Supernatural
> 
> When Dean goes to his car with visators (no spoilers):  
> [Decapitation Variations](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPnZwBmllcE) \- Score for Supernatural
> 
> P.S. Don't hesitate to leave comments, my loves! :)


	16. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sam, he was going to die anyway,_ Sheila said. She might as well have driven that knife through his heart. It would do the same amount of damage. _But I need you to do something for me before he truly dies._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two more chapters left!

_Sam, listen to me! Snap out of it! I need you to focus, damn it!_

Sheila was screaming inside his head. She wasn’t the only one screaming. Sam was shouting, but it was so defeated it was pathetic. He could rip out Logan’s throat if he could; he could snap his neck and blow his brains out, but it still would not be enough to satisfy the bloodlust. Were Sheila not controlling his body at that moment, Sam would have completely blown his cover. He would be dead in an instant, and Dean would have no one left to save him. Logan would still walk free. Cas would be stuck in the cage forever. Dean would be dead.

_Sam Winchester,_ Sheila shouted, and Sam stopped to breathe. _This is the part where we save your brother._

_I think it’s too late now, you fucking –_

_I know what lay ahead, and believe me, this is not the end for your brother._

_Then what do I do?_

_You shut the hell up and let me do the talking from now on, you imbecile. Control your emotions. You slipped up once, and now I have to cover for us. I want to live just as much as you want to save yourself and your brother, so keep your mouth quiet or I will completely take over, do you understand me, Boy King?_

_Jesus, you’re demanding,_ Sam muttered.

_In this world, I have to be._

“Was stabbing him the smartest thing to do, Moreh?” Sheila said with Sam’s voice to Logan. Moreh. Teacher, Sheila translated. He created me so many years ago, and I despise the creature. “You nearly cost me my vessel, and I do so like this vessel. So strong. So smart. So handsome.”

“Is that what you call that outburst of his?” Logan hissed. “I better not see that again, or I will decide that I do not need you anymore.”

“Ah, but you do. Besides, you ought to have predicted an emotional outburst strong enough to temporarily regain control. You stabbed Dean Winchester in front of his brother. Had you stabbed my sister, I would have reacted the same way.”

Logan’s smile was cocky, and his eyelids hung over his eyes suggestively. “I did stab your sister.” 

“And I was a weak human at the time.” _But were I as powerful as I am now, you would not be standing here to tease me now._

Her _Moreh_ understood the implication almost immediately. Logan’s smarmy smile turned into a grimace, and he bared his teeth at her. Sheila stared him down in return. Logan waved a dismissive hand at her. Both of them knew that the other would not attack, not now. It was not worth the exertion, nor was it worth their time. Sam was grateful for the fact Sheila did not use his body to fight her _Moreh._

“Come help me finish trapping this black bird, here, would you?” Logan asked, extending a hand towards Castiel. His shoulders relaxed. He had hooded eyelids once more, and his smarmy smile returned.

“I have nothing better to do,” Sheila responded.

_Listen carefully, Sam,_ Sheila whispered. _This ritual requires the feather to be set ablaze in a bowl of herbs, the purity of a virgin’s heart, and the tears of the lover. It then has to be put out with the blood from the lover in order to be shut forever._

 _Ew, don’t wanna think about that,_ Sam interjected.

_You know what I mean. Logan, as you have already guessed, despises you and your brother, especially because your brother caught him by surprise and wounded him. He will most definitely kill your brother – but he will fail. You and I will catch him unawares, and we will both have the satisfaction of killing him._

_And Dean will save Castiel?_

_Yes, and their reunion will surely be disgustingly romantic._

_I agree, though Dean will deny it. So Dean_ will _live?_

Sheila did not answer. Sam was growing frustrated with her aloofness and inability to answer a straight question. He also started noticing a pattern. Sheila had never answered with a clear yes to Sam’s direct question of Dean’s mortality. Either she was being purposefully mysterious just to frustrate him, or she was refusing to reveal information about Dean’s survival. Either he will survive but just barely, or he will survive and will not be the same. Either way, Dean will be alive . . . right?

Sheila retrieved the bowl in which Logan placed the feather he plucked from Castiel’s chest. Dean did not stop him, for he was too busy sliding off his jacket and bundling it up before pressing it against his wound to staunch the bleeding. He gasped. His breathing sounded like crackling fireworks. He laid on his back and struggled to breathe. Struggled to keep himself from bleeding out. The ends of the jacket had a crimson hue. Sam pretended he was dreaming so he would not fight for control to save his brother. It was just a nightmare. This was not real. When he saved Dean, he would wake up, and they would go get a beer.

_Patience,_ Sheila breathed. Logan handed her the demon knife nonchalantly. He was focused on Castiel. _Patience,_ Sheila repeated, tucking the knife into Sam’s jacket pocket. Her hand stayed curled around the hilt.

_“Blood of the saved has been taken,”_ Logan chanted in Enochian. Sheila translated it for Sam. He wished she did not. Logan snapped his fingers, and the feather he placed inside the bowl was set aflame. _“The lover once saved by the angel will now die because of it. Caged the angel will be for a millennia and more.”_ Sam felt his feet step forward; he felt the cool touch of the blade against his fingertips. They began inching closer. Logan was wrapped up in his ritual.

_“Rise, angel, for this gaze upon Earth will be your last,”_ Logan said in a deep, throaty voice. He grabbed Dean by the collar of his shirt and lifted him up with a quick tug. Dean lost the jacket. Blood was flowing freely from the wound. He gasped and his breath hitched in his throat. Logan tore off a bit of his shirt to wipe at the tears escaping Dean’s eyes, and he tossed the cloth into the bowl. Sam wanted to block everything out. He wanted Sheila to make him black out. Normally people being possessed are barely conscious of what the demon is doing with their body. Sheila was kind enough to let him stay awake – or was she really being cruel?

_You want to see Moreh die, do you not?_ Sheila explained. _The poor boy Logan has already died, and it was not your brother’s gunshot that killed him. Logan had already been killed before he was possessed. His soul is now being tortured and molded into a newborn Legion demon as we speak._

 _Another reason to waste your Moreh,_ Sam replied. _What’s his real name, by the way?_

 _I don’t know,_ Sheila admitted. She stood beside Logan – or _Moreh_ , rather. He was chanting, _“Rise,”_ in Enochian over and over, and all the while Castiel was slowly rising to a standing position. His eyes and mouth were still wide open in a silent scream. _He never told me his name, Sheila continued. He only told me to call him Moreh once I died and joined him in Hell._

Castiel was now standing. His eyes were casted up at the now midnight blue sky in awe. His breathing was slow and even. His arms were splayed out to reveal his chest, which was stained crimson. Sheila stared at Dean so Sam could see that he was still breathing, albeit struggling to do so. Sam could feel her curiosity piqued at the waves of grief rolling off of Sam like the ocean during a thunderstorm. She had not felt grief in so long, and now she was inhabiting the vessel of one who had to watch his brother stabbed before his eyes. Though different in context, it was not so different in comparison to that moment thousands of years ago when she watched _Moreh_ stab her sister.

Both of their musings were cut short when Castiel turned his head to stare at them. He squinted in concentration when looking at the three of them. Castiel, Sam breathed. That was such a Castiel thing to do, that squinting. But then his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes turned into pools of sorrow. A novel of heartbreak was written all over his face. He only saw Dean; he did not even glance at Sam. All that mattered was Dean. Sheila’s curiosity flared even more.

“Castiel, Castiel,” Logan hummed, and he tisked. “Don’t look so forlorn, little black bird. I’m doing you a kindness. I could have locked you in your birdcage for all eternity, never again getting the chance to see the cherished soul you’ve fought so hard to keep safe. Now you can say your goodbye as he slowly bleeds to death.”

“Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean panted. He looked so pale.

Castiel did not reply; he could not reply. He could only stare.

“Sheila, my pupil,” _Moreh_ called, and he pushed Dean into Sam. “Would you like to do the honor of draining this human? Give him a smile for me. He frowns too much.” He dragged his finger across his neck to give his suggestion a cruel visual.

“I’d rather not,” Sheila admitted in feigned sarcasm. With Sam’s arms, she grabbed a fistful of Dean’s hair and yanked his head back. She pressed the knife to Dean’s bare neck. Sam could see Dean’s pulse beating beneath his skin. The vein bulged. Dean closed his eyes. Sam realized that this could go two different ways: Sheila could turn on her _Moreh_ and stab him, or she could just as easily slide the knife across Dean’s throat and empty his life water into the bowl to put out the blazing feather. Sam suddenly felt sick.

_I told you, Boy King,_ Sheila purred. She looked at Logan with a cocky grin. _I am here to serve you._

*Both he and Sheila roared and drove the blade through Logan’s throat. Sam never knew the sound of someone choking on their own blood would sound so satisfying. Logan was anything but graceful as he toppled backwards onto his ass. He writhed and gurgled like a fountain before he lit up like a Christmas tree. His skeleton sparked beneath his skin. The familiar electric crackles of the demon knife doing its job was music in Sam’s ears. Then Logan went still. His eyes stared at nothing, and they were filled with nothing.

Sheila then moved aside and let Sam have complete control of himself. His limbs tingled as though they had fallen asleep, and as soon as he regained feeling, Sam bolted to his brother. He grabbed the jacket and was about to put pressure onto the wound, but he had to focus on catching Dean as he fell to his knees. He hunched over and began to fall in what felt like slow motion to Sam – but the bowl was beneath him, and he collapsed onto it. Dean wheezed like a deflated balloon and shut his eyes tightly.

Suddenly Castiel gasped so loudly it made Sam jump, and Sam squeezed his brother’s shoulders too tightly with the sudden fear. The angel’s arms flung out as if to embrace the stars, and his eyes gazed up at the sky once more. A blast of cold air hit Sam in the face and blew back his hair. He did not understand. Castiel should not be doing anything. The ritual was stopped.

_The blood of the angel’s lover will be used to put out the feather, Sheila said, and she sounded sad. I told you, Boy King. That is the key that locks the cage._

Sam’s stomach dropped to his toes. _No, no, why didn’t you warn me he’d bleed on the damn bowl?!_ he shouted.

_Some things are meant to pass,_ she said regretfully.

_But Dean dying wasn’t supposed to be one of those things; you said he wasn’t going to die._

 _Sam, he was going to die anyway,_ Sheila said. She might as well have driven that knife through his heart. It would do the same amount of damage. _But I need you to do something for me before he truly dies._

 _You told me he wasn’t going to die,_ Sam repeated. He was beginning to hyperventilate. It was getting hard to breathe. Dean was starting to choke. The rage was blinding Sam. _You said we were going to save my brother, damn you!_

_I never said he wasn’t going to die, and I said we would save as much of your brother as we could. I never lied._

_You only told me half-truths._

_Yes. If I had told you straight out your brother was going to quote-unquote_ die _then you would have never made the deal. I was not, however, lying when I said we would save what we could of your brother. I am still holding up my end of the deal._

“I fucking hate you,” Sam said, choking back tears. He was becoming so frustrated and angry at his helplessness and uselessness that he could only express the overwhelming self-hatred in tears. He, however, refused to let the tears fall.

“Sammy?” Dean choked, and he was literally choking. His lips were turning blue. He was gasping too much.

_I need you to let me possess him, and I will instruct him on how he can save his angel while also staying alive._

_This was never part of the deal._

_Actually, it was, sweet child. You were just never filled in on all the details._

_Fuck you,_ Sam growled, and he ripped open Dean’s shirt and used the knife to cut into his brother’s anti-possession tattoo. The gash he made on Dean mirrored the one Sam made on his own chest. Dean stared up at him in confusion.

Sam fell onto his back and let out a shriek as the demon smoke poured out of his lips. His back arched and his hands clawed at his throat. It burned, and then it became numb as the ice crept up his throat. When all the smoke was out of his mouth, he took gulps of air and got up to crouch on his knees. He could only watch as the smoke jammed its way down Dean’s throat. As Dean screamed a clear, _“No!”_ Sam hunched over and laid his forehead on the cold cement. Then he pounded the ground and let out a grievous wail. The tears that rolled down his cheeks were too hot on his icy skin. Dean’s protest made Sam want to tear himself apart.

Then it stopped.

Sam snapped his head up to look at Dean. He stared up at the angel with a curious stare. He no longer fought for air. He pressed the jacket against his wound, but he did not have to fight to put pressure on it. Sam watched him carefully, looking for any signs of Sheila or Dean being in control. When Dean suddenly turned his head to meet Sam’s gaze, he realized that it was not simply Dean nor Sheila staring back at him, but both. Whatever happened next, Sam would not be a part of. He could only watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Worth Everything Ever Wished For](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VIEv68Z9feg) \- The End of the Ocean
> 
> [Then the Quiet Explosion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWsWBfRUjTc) \- Hammock (This one will be marked by a * at the recommended time)


	17. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cas, buddy,” Dean whispered, “I’m here. I’m getting you out of this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, folks, there is ONE CHAPTER LEFT! :D Feel free to leave comments and tell me what your thoughts have been throughout the series! I'd love to hear from all y'all! <3

It was an odd feeling being so close to death and being yanked back into full consciousness. Dean knew he was bleeding out, and he knew he was about to shake hands with Death once more; however, once the demon smoke forced its way into Dean’s body, everything felt – well, it did not feel, for Dean could no longer feel his own body. It was as though he was watching himself stare up at Castiel, who, despite all of Dean’s efforts, was now trapped in the cage. When he pressed the jacket against his wound, it was not of his own command that his hand pressed the cloth against the blood flow. At least he could feel like he could breathe; at least he was not fighting for a simple inhale or exhale. He could barely feel himself stand. It was a peaceful numbness. But it was soon gone when he felt a foreign presence in his own mind.

 _Well, here we are, Dean,_ a female said in his mind. It was Sheila, the Fucking Whore. _Now, now, that’s no way to talk to the one trying to help save you – and your angel, for that matter. Simply placing your bloody handprint on his shoulder will not work, as he is locked inside the cage. You will have to do something else._

 _Let’s just get on with this,_ Dean growled. A soreness washed over his muscles. He felt faint, even in his mind. _Cas needs to be freed. I know that fucking feather can be used to save him. You told me. Even Cas told me. I just didn’t know it._ Flashbacks of the dream he had of Castiel giving him the feather flew through his mind, and Sheila tilted her head – Dean’s head – in curiosity. Dean felt her interest in his and Castiel’s complicated friendship. She wanted to dig further, but Dean put another layer to the concrete wall he had already put up. Even he did not allow himself to dig further. 

_I will do whatever it takes to free Cas,_ he announced. _Even if I have to, I don’t know, fucking trade places with him, I’ll do it._

_Well, excellent, for that is exactly what you need to do. You will live – maybe, depending on what you view as living – and Castiel will also be freed. Sam will not have made that deal just to watch you bleed to death. As a bonus, your angel will be freed, just as you wanted. I am giving Sam more than he asked for._

Dean took a deep breath. His chest expanded with his inhale, and contracted with his exhale, though he did not feel it; rather, he watched it. Sheila sighed with him.

 _What do I have to do?_ Dean asked.

The earth began to shake. Dean watched as Sam looked around in confusion. The soft glow casted around Castiel was beginning to grow brighter with every passing minute. The earth was quaking more and more.

 _That started happening quicker than I anticipated,_ Sheila mused, _and I am supposed to be able to predict the future. Forgive me._

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ Dean muttered.

_Right, we do not have much time, unfortunately, so I will not sugarcoat what you have to do. You may not like it – Sheila chuckled. On the contrary, you just might._

_What?_ Dean demanded.

_To free the angel, the lover, if she or he continues to breathe, must smear the ashes of the feather upon the lips of the angel, and say, “Ohl mahl-pi-reh-gah nee-ees ah-me-rawn, my life for yours.” The lover then must place a tender kiss upon the angel’s lips. Thus, the lover will take the angel’s place in its cage._

_Jesus fucking Christ,_ Dean groaned, and he mentally punched the wall he put up between him and his own repressed feelings. He kicked it again and again. He wanted anything but to open this _God damn can o’ worms._ This was not the way he wanted to dig up this crap. He never let himself feel anything close to this. Now he was being forced to reveal and act on feelings he forced down into the deep recesses of his mind. He wasn’t ready. 

_Let it sink in,_ Sheila suggested. _Good. Cease your whining and do as you are told. I cannot control your actions for you, as the ritual will not work if I am doing it for you. One of the reasons I cannot heal you is because normally it is your death or wounds that are a part of this ritual, and were I to heal you, it would neither free nor trap the angel – he would be stuck in limbo, if you will. Therefore, I will help, but only so much. You will feel the pain, and you will feel weak, but it is important for you to hurry. If you do not, the ground will split open beneath us and drop us off deep into a part of Purgatory even you have not seen, nor will you ever want to._

 _You know, I would hurry if you shut the hell up,_ Dean replied in an instant. _I got a job to do, ya know._

_A job it may be, but also a revelation for you._

_Will you just shut your damn mouth?_

_Fine. Have fun feeling the punctured lung. I shall be here, trying to keep you breathing._

*Dean nearly collapsed when he regained control of his broken body. Sam was there in an instant to hold him up, and Dean took a moment to look at Sam. _Cas will do a better job of protecting him than I will. I’m no angel,_ Dean told himself to justify leaving Sammy behind to face this God awful world. Sam simply stared back at Dean with such raw sadness that Dean had to look away. Looking at Castiel did not make the heartbreak any less, well, fucking heartbreaking.

Dean started reaching for the bowl when Sam asked, “What are we gonna do, Dean?”

“It’s more of what I’m gonna do, Sammy,” Dean huffed. Grabbing the bowl from the ground was harder than he thought it would be. But he did it. Sam held him straight when he felt as though he would fall over. Dean clutched the bowl like it was life itself, which, in a way, it was.

“This place is gonna crack open any second,” Sam protested. The ground seemed to shake even harder in response. As if Dean did not have enough issues with his balance at the moment. 

“Which is why I gotta save Cas and be quick about it.” Dean smeared two fingers in the ashes of the feather, as Sheila told him to, and he stared at his shaking hand for a couple seconds. The ashes were warm against his cold skin. It almost felt good. Then he looked at Sam. _Oh God, he’s gonne see it, isn’t he?_ A flash of fire attacked his cheeks, and it spread around to his ears. “I would appreciate if you did not see what I’m about to do next. Please. For my sake.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

Dean sighed, and he pushed Sam away. He took a painfully hard step closer to Cas. “I’m saving Cas.”

“Dean – Dean I –” Sam stuttered. He looked so defeated. Sam knew what was coming next and he was trying to deny it, but he could not. Dean hated this almost as much as seeing Cas trapped. He had to force himself to look away when he saw Sam’s eyes turn red and spill over with fat tears. _God damn all of this._ He was being forced to deal with so many God damned emotions head on when he was used to pushing them down. It was all being put out on the table. His last dying act was allowing himself to feel, and allowing his brother and the angel – his angel – to see him raw, laid bare, and vulnerable.

“Please, just – just give me a moment,” Dean pleaded with a broken voice. Sam looked down at the ground and pressed his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. Dean had to push Sam off of him, and he wanted to stab himself for being so cruel.

The earth shook more. Sam had to go to his knees because he could not stay up. The ground rumbled. Dean used Castiel as support, but when he touched the angel, he felt queasy and cold.

“Cas, buddy,” Dean whispered, “I’m here. I’m getting you out of this.”

Castiel only stared up at the stars. Dean allowed himself to get lost in Castiel’s sky blue eyes. A blossom of warmth spread from Dean’s chest and to the rest of his body. His every nerve was buzzing with an electric charge he had never felt before. His heart pounded, and it was not the exertion causing it to do so.

Dean brought his shaking fingers to Castiel’s chapped lips, and he rubbed the ashes on them. He placed his hand on Castiel’s coat collar and gripped tight when he ceased his smearing. _“Ohl mahl-pi-reh-gah nee-ees ah-me-rawn,”_ he choked. He was actually nervous, and he had that same lighter-than-air sensation he felt when he was a kid and was about to have his first kiss. His blush was now an embarrassed flush.

 _Don’t you look either, if you can manage it,_ Dean commanded Sheila. He did not know how, but he felt her shrug. Suddenly the demon smoke burst from his lips, and he lost feeling in his legs. He blacked out, but only for a moment, and when he came to he heard Sam coughing. He looked over to find the last of the demon smoke slide down Sam’s throat.

Dean took a deep breath, and he leaned down closer to Cas. His eyes closed. He felt his nose brush Castiel’s. His ribs became the cage that held wild winged creatures within, and they were writhing with anticipation. Dean was becoming short of breathe, and he felt the oncoming black out. He had to stay here. He forced himself to stay. 

When Castiel’s hot breath hit Dean’s lips, he realized how badly he wanted this, and the impulse thrust him forward. His lips met Castiel in a soft embrace. All of a sudden, he felt warmth spread across his entirety. His eyebrows furrowed, and he clutched onto Castiel’s stupid coat harder. He ached for this moment to be at a different place, a different time, with a different context. He would never get that. This one, simple kiss awoke in Dean a longing for Castiel he never let himself admit, and it was paired with a longing for all of this to be done a different way. This kiss tasted of desperation and pain – _why did it have to be like this?_ Dean asked no one.

When Dean pulled away, the ground stood still. A sky full of stars enveloped him. He looked around him and saw himself surrounded by demons he thought long gone, like Alistair and Lilith. Abaddon was frozen in place with a hand on Castiel’s broken and charred wing. _His wings,_ Dean thought in awe. He had never seen them before. They were magnificent and pure, covered in glossy black feathers tipped with midnight blue that stood on end, as one’s hair stands on end when frightened. Dean would have thought them incredibly beautiful had they not been broken, quivering, and half-burnt. Dean’s eyes followed the length of the angel’s wings down to a crouching, panting Castiel. He was bleeding in random patches on his body. A ring of dying angel fire surrounded the two figures. When Castiel looked up at Dean with a bruised and bloody face, the fire went out completely in a whisp. Dean collapsed to his knees beside Cas.

“I know what you’re here to do,” Castiel said. Blood trickled down from a gash on his cheek. Tears leaked from his swollen black eye. 

“You can’t stop me,” Dean replied with a determined growl. He clenched his fist. He wanted to reach out and stroke Castiel’s face, but he could not let himself. He had already done one intimate act too many. He could not allow himself more. It hurt too much.

“I am too weak to do so,” Cas chuckled. It was a sad sound, but Dean still chuckled with him. “I am incredibly angry with you, Dean Winchester.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Why couldn’t you just leave me? I would rather go through an eternity of torture than have you endure it. Why would you do this to me?”

“You know why, Cas. God damn it, don’t make me say it. I’ve had to do too much of that already. I’m raw.”

Castiel was slipping out of view. Chains were beginning to sneak around Dean’s ankles. Their time was running out.

“This is not goodbye. Understand? I will get you out of this.”

“If it means putting you back in here, don’t you fucking dare. I’ll leave you in here if that’s the case.”

Castiel laughed, but soon his laughter died in his throat, and he leaned his forehead against Dean’s. The two of them stiffened. These soft touches were foreign to not only Dean, but to Castiel as well, but in a way it felt oddly natural. Dean closed his eyes and allowed himself to soak up the warm fuzzies. He was going to be tortured for the rest of eternity. He could allow himself this one thing. He would not, however, steal a kiss from Castiel. He could not. He had done in minutes what had been taking years to simply acknowledge. The longing for more was nearly unbearable – and not merely a lust for another kiss, not like the lust he felt just yesterday for some random chick; it was a yearning for another chance to try all of this over again on Dean’s terms. It may have been an achingly slow process to get to this point, but it was on his own time, and in his own way. One kiss as a last goodbye was enough. In all honesty, it nearly killed Dean doing it – in fact, it was what was sending him to his symbolical grave.

A chain wrapped around Dean’s wrist and yanked his arm back, and another, and just like that he was torn from Castiel.

“Dean!” Cas shouted, and like that, he was gone. He faded into dust and the only thing that met Dean’s gaze now was the sky full of unforgiving stars above him.

Something jerked Dean backward, and his back slammed against cold and rough steel. A red hue was cast over the starry sky. Jagged edges poked into his skin. When he tried to look at what he was chained to, he realized in an instant what it was: a steel devil’s trap. A stalking, scrawny figure materialized before him and chuckled. Alistair appeared before him holding a scythe. Dean had been here before when he once traded his life for Sam’s. This damn cage seemed hell-bent on personalizing the torture – hence those specific demon’s breaking Castiel’s body – and it knew one of Dean’s worst nightmares. It never would have been Purgatory. Where Purgatory was pure, Hell was polluted. He knew who he was in Purgatory, but in Hell, he was afraid of who he was becoming.

“Shall I reintroduce myself?” Alistair purred. He stroked the edge of his scythe with his thumb like Dean stroked Castiel’s lips with the ashes. 

“Oh, I know who you are,” Dean replied. “Come on. Bring it. I remember the routine.”

“Then I’ll have to get creative.”

The cold kiss of the blade against Dean’s chest was the first of many to come, and Dean took it in silence. He would not scream. This time, he would not give in, even if there were no seals to break and no threat of jumpstarting the apocalypse looming over his head. He signed up for this shit, _and I will fucking take it all. Saving Cas . . . it’s worth it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a * where I suggest you start listening to the song for maximum feels.
> 
> [You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPJLu_wcTKc) \- Keaton Henson
> 
> This song has become my new OTP song. I don't know why I did this to myself, but I did. Now, I am subjecting you to the feels. Have fun!
> 
> Also, a song I found works as well (and now cannot listen to without thinking of this chapter) is:
> 
> [A Sky Full of Stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zp7NtW_hKJI) \- Coldplay


	18. Epilogue - Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last. Fricken. Chapter. Man oh man, can't believe we already reached the end! :D Thanks to all of you for reading what I call my child. You guys are wonderful and amazing and beautiful. Please, don't be afraid to tell me what you think! I wanna know what y'all felt during this fic. :)
> 
> Make sure to read the notes at the end! I got more stuff to tell you about the next phase! :) Enjoy!

There was a moment of peaceful . . . nothingness. Castiel felt like he was floating on an ocean of stars, and the water was pleasantly warm and welcoming. The gentle swaying lulled him into a serene coma. He could not have cared less about the events prior to his peaceful floating. Perhaps I am in a part of Heaven I have not yet explored, he thought. Even his voice was calm, much like the ocean on which he was set adrift. To his left the sun poked out from beneath the horizon he did not even know was there; it was lost in the sea of constellations upon which he blissfully floated. As the sun cast its weak orange glow upon him, he realized that he was not floating, nor was there any ocean drifting him away to what he allowed himself to hope was Heaven. He saw a pair of legs standing before him on concrete. Then he heard his name. 

_Dean?_ he thought hopefully.

“Castiel, please, we have to go!” the voice shouted. Giant hands grabbed him, and a towering figure loomed over him. “Castiel, the ground is gonna crack open any second, and I can’t leave you here. We didn’t give up all this for you just to end up in Purgatory again.”

Castiel wanted it to be Dean so badly. Seeing the typical moody expression contorting his face would have made the angel’s wings flutter. When Castiel’s eyes focused, a panicked Sam stared back at him. The swaying he felt before he became conscious was the earth shaking beneath him. A bright light shone over half of Sam’s face; it almost blinded Castiel, and as he sat up, he decided he would investigate. He was an angel. He had witnessed many bright lights, whether it was from his destruction of an abomination or the dying light of his brethren. Those were always a painful light to witness. The source of this particular bright light, however, was the most heartbreaking of all, and the second he looked was the same second he wished he never did.

Dean hung suspended in air with his mouth hung open in a silent scream. His arms spread out wide like angel wings and his eyes were casted at the dying night sky. The newborn dawn framed him in weak shades of orange and pink. Castiel wondered why the most beautiful soul he had ever had the pleasure to befriend had to die in the most beautiful way as well? Maybe God was doing this to Castiel on purpose to add to his suffering. Perhaps God was allowing Castiel to see the soul he loved for the last time cast in a sight as beautiful as a painting rather than as a bloody heap on the floor. Castiel did not bother to ponder further.

“Cas!” Sam wailed as an ear-splitting _crack_ shook them to their core.

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel sobbed, and tears he did not know he was fighting escaped. He did not know who he was apologizing to more, Sam or Dean. He gasped as the grief threatened to pour out of him. Another _crack_ pierced his ears, and he forced himself to hold in his sorrow. Sam fell to his hands and knees beside Castiel. The angel slapped his hand onto Sam’s shoulder and gripped tight. With what little strength he had, he fought the violent urge to stay with Dean and teleported himself and Sam to the farthest hospital in town, where the shaking was no less than a dying quiver of the earth.

He and Sam collapsed in front of the doors, gasping for air and riding the wave of their adrenaline. Castiel landed on his hands and knees, and he felt his hands scrape against the concrete. He lifted his hand and saw blood, felt the sting. He chose not to heal himself. His strength was next to nothing as it was, and besides, the deep, aching heartbreak was so much that the weak sting of the scrape was nothing but a bother.

Sam suddenly screamed, and black demon smoke poured from his lips and bolted behind parked cars. Castiel must have been immensely weak not to have noticed Sam being possessed at all, but it did not matter. Earlier, when the ritual to lock him in the cage was about to begin, he saw Logan’s demon holding up a dying Dean, and he saw Sam casted in the shadow of a demon, meaning he was possessed, but the demon possessing him was lying low. It was gone now, whatever demon it was. Sam, however, was unconscious, which was to be expected of a possession. Castiel had chosen to take them to a hospital for a reason. He forced himself to stand and carry Sam inside the hospital. News of an earthquake so strong that it was swallowing nearly half of the nearby amusement park was already spreading, and Castiel wished to silence them all. The amusement park was not the thing being swallowed, it was Dean trapped in a cage being delivered to the deepest and darkest part of Purgatory. 

“We need help, please,” Castiel said to whichever doctor or nurse that passed by him. They were running around to different patients and rooms and making so many calls; phones rang, the volume on the televisions were raised, and hysteria ensued. “Please,” Castiel groaned, and just like that, he collapsed. Sam was crushed beneath him. Now both he and the angel were lost to the darkness.

\--

When Castiel opened his eyes, he was immediately drawn to the thousands of dust particles dancing in the strip of light painted before him. Behind the floating dust was a canvas of white. All in all, it was a beautiful sight. When Castiel turned his head to find the source of pale yellow light, he found a window with the blinds parted enough for the sunlight to burst through. That is the moment he noticed the IV bag hung on a rack. A skinny tube leading from the bag housed the needle tucked into the inside of the crook of his arm. When he moved, the hospital bed creaked beneath him, and the needle writhed beneath his skin. To rid himself of the discomfort, he immediately ripped the IV out, and he threw the think blanket off of himself. His memory was beginning to come back to him. The bliss of watching the dust particles was gone. He knew he was in a hospital, and he knew, though he tried not to remember, the events leading him to this present moment.

The tile floor beneath his bare feet felt cool to the touch, and he curled his toes in. He was not used to bare feet, nor was he used to the loose fit of a hospital gown. It felt odd to be in clothes other than his – Jimmy Novak’s – pantsuit, trench coat, and dress shoes. He found them folded neatly on the metal desk across from his bed. After he closed the door to his hospital room, he changed. Though he was at full power once more – the celestial power pumping through his veins gave it away – he still felt the aches and pains in his muscles that reminded him that when he arrived he was human. He had resorted to using human medicine because in that short window he was nothing but a dying angel inside a human vessel. He was human.

Human. In context, Castiel understood that word to mean fragile, easily broken, not durable, as being vomited from the cage left him feeling. That was all physical. For all the millennia he had lived, all those weak words are what Castiel understood as human, and what his celestial siblings told him being human meant. Yet he still craved to understand humanity in its entirety. Only a few short years ago, he had learned what being human meant emotionally. Being freed from the cage by Dean felt just so: he felt heart-racing exhilaration upon being saved, guilt for what it came to, bliss at the taste of another’s lips on his own, an aching for what could have been, and heartbreak from intense loss. Castiel had never felt so human, and though it was entirely eye-opening and freeing, all of it made him appreciate the full-of-faith yet steeled-against-emotions that meant being an Angel of the Lord.

Castiel took a deep breath and cloaked himself to the vision of humans. He did not want to be seen, nor did he want to be heard; he wanted to be invisible. He spread his wings in a quick jolt, and in an instant he was in the hospital room of a young man named Chris succumbing to cancer’s embrace. He lay upon the bed looking pale and gaunt, and yet his partner Dave clung to him, even in sleep. Dave had one arm flung across his dying lover’s waist, and the other tucked beneath his cheek as a make-shift pillow. Castiel looked upon them in both sorrow and hope. He came here in hopes that healing the various patients in this hospital would take his mind of last night’s events – he dare not acknowledge it; acknowledging meant feeling Dean’s loss. Seeing this man holding onto his lover so tight, knowing that the love of his life was about to shake hands with Death yet refusing to let go – was Castiel not experiencing this mere hours ago? He could not bring back the soul he loved, but he could save these two souls the same heartbreak and loss he himself felt.

He put a hand against Chris’s diseased lungs and expelled the cancer. The young man’s eyes – bright blue, sky blue – shot open, and he took a long and strained gasp, but his breathing returned to normal in seconds. When he yanked against the breathing apparatus, Dave opened his eyes – green eyes, achingly so – and looked upon Chris in shock. Castiel left the room to give them privacy for their reunion. Or perhaps he was selfish and could not bear to see a lover’s reunion when he himself could not have one. Whatever the reason, he left, and he happened upon another room with an elderly father waiting upon his dying child that had accidentally overdosed on pills he thought were candy. He saved them, too, and he saved so many others. He even healed the migraine of a random nurse who had been working for three days straight.

She was not, in fact, random. She was Sam Winchester’s nurse. Castiel had finally mustered up the courage to stop avoiding a visit to Sam. Seeing Sam only meant thinking of Dean, and Castiel had been healing humans to distract himself. He had to check on Sam. Who knows in what state the possession left him. Besides, seeing Sam safe would be a comfort to the angel, no matter how much he would think of his lost hunter.

Castiel felt the fever resting inside Sam. It was a dying flame, and Sam was starting to recover. He was also deep asleep, both from exhaustion and from being medicated to fight the fever and other things the doctors did not understand. Demon possession does that to a human, and although Sam was no ordinary human, he was still a fragile human.

Sam’s face contorted, and he exhaled deeply. He was dreaming. Castiel felt a twinge of hope. Perhaps Sam was dreaming of his brother. Were that the case, Castiel could simply slip inside Sam’s dream and see Dean once more. Castiel knew he was being selfish; Castiel knew that slipping inside Sam’s dream meant invading his privacy, but at the moment, Castiel wanted to do something for himself. He took a deep breath and he closed his eyes.

When Castiel opened his eyes, he stared at the game corner in the amusement park. It was sunny, and a gentle breeze flitted across his face and hands. Two targets placed in front of a red and white striped canvas stared at him. One of the targets had a picture of a clown taped to it. Sam stood with a plastic gun loaded with a suction-cup dart in one hand, and the other hand stuffed in one of his jacket pockets as he faced his brother. He looked like he normally does to Castiel. He smiled. Suddenly, Dean’s familiar laugh warmed Castiel’s body, and he could no longer fight the urge to look at him, even if he was a figment of Sam’s unconscious mind.

The corner of Dean’s eyes crinkled, and he threw his whole body back in a laugh. He was pointing at the target with the clown picture with his plastic gun, and then he pointed at his younger brother. Castiel could not help but smile at hearing Dean’s laugh. This smile, as well as this laugh, were rare sights indeed. Dean hardly let out a genuine laugh. Castiel soaked it up.

“Dude,” Dean laughed, “too bad it ain’t a real clown. You’d feel real good about shooting it if it were.”

“Yeah, well, it’s fake, and so is the gun,” Sam replied with a smirk. “Were it a real clown, I’d want an actual gun. That’d be ten times more satisfying.”

“Geez, Sammy – I thought I was the homicidal maniac.” Dean loaded the plastic gun. “I bet’cha I can shoot the bull’s-eye.”

“I bet you I can, too.”

“Uh, no, you can’t, nor do I think you can, hence the bet.” Sam scoffed at his brother’s accusation, and Dean shrugged. “C’mon, we both know I’m the better shot outta the two of us – well, _three_ , if ya even wanna count Cas, even though he cheats and never uses a gun ‘cause he has fricken angel mojo.” Dean shot a grin at the angel. “Ain’t that right, Cas?” Castiel’s heart skipped a beat. 

Sam glanced at Castiel for a second, and then he did a double take. He squinted at the angel. “Cas?” Sam asked.

Dean waved his plastic gun and gestured at both himself and his brother. “Which of us do you think is the better shot, Cas? It’s me, say it’s me, ‘cause if you don’t you’re lying.”

“Cas, what are you doing here?” Sam asked, ignoring his brother. He suddenly hissed and rubbed his temple. Castiel felt a twinge of regret. Humans that are lucid dreamers or light sleepers are more aware of themselves and their surroundings in a dream, and can therefore sense when the angel invading their dream is not simply a construction of their unconscious mind. Dean was both a lucid dreamer and a light sleeper, which is why he always knew when Castiel decided to visit him in a dream. Sam, however, was not a lucid dreamer, and therefore was struggling to comprehend the sudden appearance of the angel. It often caused the sleeper discomfort, but it would soon pass, and the dream would continue uninterrupted. Castiel hoped that would happen soon. Dean was here. He wanted to savor Dean’s image.

“Hey! Earth to Sammy!” Dean sang. “Is it a bet, or no?”

Sam shook his head and blinked rapidly. He grinned at his brother when he came back to his senses. Then he answered, “You shoot first.”

“Oh, I will,” Dean answered in a voice that was not his own. It was Logan’s. Sam dropped his plastic gun. The plastic gun Dean was holding suddenly turned into a real one, and he pointed it at his own head. A body materialized behind Dean, and hands wrapped around Dean’s as he held the trigger. Logan appeared, and he was holding the gun to Dean’s hands, but he did not struggle.

This dream had turned into a feverish nightmare.

Logan pulled out an angel blade and held it to Castiel’s throat in a blink of an eye, and Sam’s eyes widened in terror. He tried to reach for the demon knife tucked into his jacket pocket, but Logan told him not to move, lest he wanted both Castiel and Dean to die.

Logan said, “I’m going to give your brother a choice: he can choose to save himself, or he can save his angel.”

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Sam cut him off: “ _No_ , Dean, I know what you’re going to choose, and I can’t let you do that!”

“It’s too late, Sammy,” Dean argued. He looked at Castiel. “I’ve already chosen.”

“This is not how it was supposed to end, _no! _” Sam’s shout was agonizing. He threw the plastic gun against the target with the clown picture. The target shattered into tiny wooden splinters. “I’m supposed to save you! That’s what the deal was!”__

__“What is your choice, then, Dean?” Logan whispered into Dean’s ear._ _

__“I choose Castiel,” Dean answered loud and clear. He stared at Castiel, but his face showed no emotion. “I choose to save Castiel.”_ _

__“Why?” Sam asked, but he was not asking Dean. He was looking at Castiel with red eyes and a furrowed brow. He stalked over to Castiel and grabbed onto the collar of his trench coat. He shook Castiel as he shouted, “Why couldn’t I save him? Why did he choose this?!”_ _

__Castiel regret hopping into Sam’s dream. He ruined it. It was a good dream until he decided to barge in._ _

__The bang of the gun and Sam’s heartbreaking wail were cut off when Castiel forced his way out of Sam’s dream. He could not bear the guilt._ _

__“Cas?” Sam asked sleepily. A wave of heat radiated off of his skin. Castiel avoided looking at his eyes and walked over to him. “Cas, what are you doing?”_ _

__Castiel placed a hand against Sam’s forehead. “Healing your fever.” A sheen of sweat broke out on Sam’s forehead and upper lip. The fever was broken. “Rest.”_ _

__“Uh, thanks,” Sam stuttered._ _

__Castiel could no longer hold it in. “I’m sorry, Sam.”_ _

__“For what?”_ _

___An excellent question,_ Castiel thought, and he teleported himself out of Sam’s room and in front of the hospital doors. Castiel did not know what he was apologizing for – waking Sam up, ruining his dream, or for being the reason Dean was trapped in a cage and being tortured for what may well be eternity in the vilest part of Purgatory. Dean was as good as lost forever. Looking for the cage would be a suicide mission, and it would not free Dean to simply go looking for it. So what was Castiel to do? What would Dean do had he been unable to trade places with Castiel?_ _

___He would say, “Fuck it,” and charge into Purgatory with whatever strength he had,_ Castiel thought, _so perhaps that is what I shall do.__ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, here is music suggestion:
> 
> [Silence of Siberia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79Hx5Qpyh7s) \- Lowercase Noises
> 
> Okay, about that "next phase:" Yes, it is a sequel! It is still currently in the works. I would have had it done or almost done by now but my laptop pooped out on me and I lost about THIRTEEN CHAPTERS of the damn thing and I've had to rewrite all of it. And I'll have to rewrite some of the rewrites because it's not the same as the first draft and I'm a perfectionist. *I am cry* HOWEVER. I am nearly caught up, so in about a month or so I'll be done (it's a lot longer than this fic and I am in college), and in a few weeks I'll maybe post the Prologue and first chapter. So, expect around March - April to have the sequel underway. :)
> 
> Wanna know the sequel's name? *wiggles eyebrows* It's called: The Demon Cure. *dramatic movie BWAAAAH sound*
> 
> Thank you all for reading. I've said it before and I'll say it again: y'all are wonderful. ;)


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